Dickens, Charles, David Copper Field Vol.2

DavidCopperfield

VolumeTwo

byCharles Dickens

A Penn State UniversityElectronic Classics Series

Publication

David Copperfield, Volume Two, Containing chapterstwenty-nine through sixty-four, by Charles Dickens is apublication of the Pennsylvania State University. ThisPortable Document file is furnished free and withoutany charge of any kind. Any person using this docu-ment file, for any purpose, and in any way does so athis or her own risk. Neither the Pennsylvania StateUniversity nor Jim Manis, Faculty Editor, nor anyoneassociated with the Pennsylvania State Universityassumes any responsibility for the material containedwithin the document or for the file as an electronictransmission, in any way.

David Copperfield, Volume Two, Containing chapterstwenty-nine through sixty-four, by Charles Dickens, thePennsylvania State University, Electronic Classics Series,Jim Manis, Faculty Editor, Hazleton, PA 18201-1291is a Portable Document File produced as part of anongoing student publication project to bring classicalworks of literature, in English, to free and easy accessof those wishing to make use of them.

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Dickens

DAVID COPPERFIELD VOL-UME TWO

ByCharles Dickens

CHAPTER 29I VISIT STEERFORTH AT

HIS HOME, AGAIN

I MENTIONED TO Mr. Spenlow in the morning, that I wanted leaveof absence for a short time; and as I was not in the receipt of anysalary, and consequently was not obnoxious to the implacableJorkins, there was no difficulty about it. I took that opportunity,with my voice sticking in my throat, and my sight failing as I ut-tered the words, to express my hope that Miss Spenlow was quitewell; to which Mr. Spenlow replied, with no more emotion than ifhe had been speaking of an ordinary human being, that he wasmuch obliged to me, and she was very well.

We articled clerks, as germs of the patrician order of proctors, weretreated with so much consideration, that I was almost my own masterat all times. As I did not care, however, to get to Highgate before oneor two o’clock in the day, and as we had another little excommunica-tion case in court that morning, which was called The office of thejudge promoted by Tipkins against Bullock for his soul’s correction, Ipassed an hour or two in attendance on it with Mr. Spenlow very

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David Copperfield—Volume Two

agreeably. It arose out of a scuffle between two churchwardens, one ofwhom was alleged to have pushed the other against a pump; the handleof which pump projecting into a school-house, which school-housewas under a gable of the church-roof, made the push an ecclesiasticaloffence. It was an amusing case; and sent me up to Highgate, on thebox of the stage-coach, thinking about the Commons, and what Mr.Spenlow had said about touching the Commons and bringing downthe country.

Mrs. Steerforth was pleased to see me, and so was Rosa Dartle. Iwas agreeably surprised to find that Littimer was not there, and thatwe were attended by a modest little parlour-maid, with blue ribbonsin her cap, whose eye it was much more pleasant, and much lessdisconcerting, to catch by accident, than the eye of that respectableman. But what I particularly observed, before I had been half-an-hour in the house, was the close and attentive watch Miss Dartlekept upon me; and the lurking manner in which she seemed to com-pare my face with Steerforth’s, and Steerforth’s with mine, and to liein wait for something to come out between the two. So surely as Ilooked towards her, did I see that eager visage, with its gaunt blackeyes and searching brow, intent on mine; or passing suddenly frommine to Steerforth’s; or comprehending both of us at once. In thislynx-like scrutiny she was so far from faltering when she saw I ob-served it, that at such a time she only fixed her piercing look uponme with a more intent expression still. Blameless as I was, and knewthat I was, in reference to any wrong she could possibly suspect meof, I shrunk before her strange eyes, quite unable to endure theirhungry lustre.

All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talked toSteerforth in his room, I heard her dress rustle in the little galleryoutside. When he and I engaged in some of our old exercises on thelawn behind the house, I saw her face pass from window to window,like a wandering light, until it fixed itself in one, and watched us.When we all four went out walking in the afternoon, she closed herthin hand on my arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforthand his mother went on out ofhearing: and then spoke to me.

‘You have been a long time,’ she said, ‘without coming here. Is

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your profession really so engaging and interesting as to absorb yourwhole attention? I ask because I always want to be informed, when Iam ignorant. Is it really, though?’

I replied that I liked it well enough, but that I certainly could notclaim so much for it.

‘Oh! I am glad to know that, because I always like to be put rightwhen I am wrong,’ said Rosa Dartle. ‘You mean it is a little dry,perhaps?’

‘Well,’ I replied; ‘perhaps it was a little dry.’‘Oh! and that’s a reason why you want relief and change—excite-

ment and all that?’ said she. ‘Ah! very true! But isn’t it a little—Eh?—for him; I don’t mean you?’

A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steerforth waswalking, with his mother leaning on his arm, showed me whom shemeant; but beyond that, I was quite lost. And I looked so, I have nodoubt.

‘Don’t it—I don’t say that it does, mind I want to know—don’t itrather engross him? Don’t it make him, perhaps, a little more remissthan usual in his visits to his blindly-doting—eh?’ With another quickglance at them, and such a glance at me as seemed to look into myinnermost thoughts.

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘pray do not think -’‘I don’t!’ she said. ‘Oh dear me, don’t suppose that I think any-

thing! I am not suspicious. I only ask a question. I don’t state anyopinion. I want to found an opinion on what you tell me. Then, it’snot so? Well! I am very glad to know it.’

‘It certainly is not the fact,’ said I, perplexed, ‘that I amaccountable for Steerforth’s having been away from home longer thanusual—if he has been: which I really don’t know at this moment,unless I understand it from you. I have not seen him this long while,until last night.’

‘No?’‘Indeed, Miss Dartle, no!’As she looked full at me, I saw her face grow sharper and paler, and

the marks of the old wound lengthen out until it cut through thedisfigured lip, and deep into the nether lip, and slanted down theface. There was something positively awful to me in this, and in the

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brightness of her eyes, as she said, looking fixedly at me:‘What is he doing?’I repeated the words, more to myself than her, being so amazed.‘What is he doing?’ she said, with an eagerness that seemed enough

to consume her like a fire. ‘In what is that man assisting him, whonever looks at me without an inscrutable falsehood in his eyes? If youare honourable and faithful, I don’t ask you to betray your friend. Iask you only to tell me, is it anger, is it hatred, is it pride, is it restless-ness, is it some wild fancy, is it love, what is it, that is leading him?’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘how shall I tell you, so that you willbelieve me, that I know of nothing in Steerforth different from whatthere was when I first came here? I can think of nothing. I firmlybelieve there is nothing. I hardly understand even what you mean.’

As she still stood looking fixedly at me, a twitching or throbbing,from which I could not dissociate the idea of pain, came into thatcruel mark; and lifted up the corner of her lip as if with scorn, orwith a pity that despised its object. She put her hand upon it hur-riedly—a hand so thin and delicate, that when I had seen her hold itup before the fire to shade her face, I had compared it in my thoughtsto fine porcelain—and saying, in a quick, fierce, passionate way, ‘Iswear you to secrecy about this!’ said not a word more.

Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son’s society, andSteerforth was, on this occasion, particularly attentive and respectfulto her. It was very interesting to me to see them together, not only onaccount of their mutual affection, but because of the strong personalresemblance between them, and the manner in which what washaughty or impetuous in him was softened by age and sex, in her, toa gracious dignity. I thought, more than once, that it was well noserious cause of division had ever come between them; or two suchnatures—I ought rather to express it, two such shades of the samenature—might have been harder to reconcile than the two extremestopposites in creation. The idea did not originate in my own discern-ment, I am bound to confess, but in a speech of Rosa Dartle’s.

She said at dinner:‘Oh, but do tell me, though, somebody, because I have been thinking

about it all day, and I want to know.’‘You want to know what, Rosa?’ returned Mrs. Steerforth. ‘Pray,

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pray, Rosa, do not be mysterious.’‘Mysterious!’ she cried. ‘Oh! really? Do you consider me so?’‘Do I constantly entreat you,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, ‘to speak plainly,

in your own natural manner?’‘Oh! then this is not my natural manner?’ she rejoined. ‘Now you must

really bear with me, because I ask for information. We never know ourselves.’‘It has become a second nature,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, without any

displeasure; ‘but I remember,—and so must you, I think,—whenyour manner was different, Rosa; when it was not so guarded, andwas more trustful.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ she returned; ‘and so it is that bad habitsgrow upon one! Really? Less guarded and more trustful? How can I,imperceptibly, have changed, I wonder! Well, that’s very odd! I muststudy to regain my former self.’

‘I wish you would,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, with a smile.‘Oh! I really will, you know!’ she answered. ‘I will learnfrankness from—

let me see—from James.’‘You cannot learn frankness, Rosa,’ said Mrs. Steerforth quickly—for

there was always some effect of sarcasm in what Rosa Dartle said, thoughit was said, as this was, in the most unconscious manner in the world—’in a better school.’

‘That I am sure of,’ she answered, with uncommon fervour. ‘If Iam sure of anything, of course, you know, I am sure of that.’

Mrs. Steerforth appeared to me to regret having been a little nettled;for she presently said, in a kind tone:

‘Well, my dear Rosa, we have not heard what it is that you want tobe satisfied about?’

‘That I want to be satisfied about?’ she replied, with provokingcoldness. ‘Oh! It was only whether people, who are like each other intheir moral constitution—is that the phrase?’

‘It’s as good a phrase as another,’ said Steerforth.‘Thank you:—whether people, who are like each other in their

moral constitution, are in greater danger than people not so circum-stanced, supposing any serious cause of variance to arise between them,of being divided angrily and deeply?’

‘I should say yes,’ said Steerforth.‘Should you?’ she retorted. ‘Dear me! Supposing then, for in-

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stance—any unlikely thing will do for a supposition—that you andyour mother were to have a serious quarrel.’

‘My dear Rosa,’ interposed Mrs. Steerforth, laughing good-naturedly, ‘suggest some other supposition! James and I know ourduty to each other better, I pray Heaven!’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Dartle, nodding her head thoughtfully. ‘To besure. That would prevent it? Why, of course it would. Exactly.Now, I am glad I have been so foolish as to put the case, for it is sovery good to know that your duty to each other would prevent it!Thank you very much.’

One other little circumstance connected with Miss Dartle I mustnot omit; for I had reason to remember it thereafter, when all theirremediable past was rendered plain. During the whole of this day,but especially from this period of it, Steerforth exerted himself withhis utmost skill, and that was with his utmost ease, to charm thissingular creature into a pleasant and pleased companion. That he shouldsucceed, was no matter of surprise to me. That she should struggleagainst the fascinating influence of his delightful art—delightful na-ture I thought it then—did not surprise me either; for I knew that shewas sometimes jaundiced and perverse. I saw her features and her man-ner slowly change; I saw her look at him with growing admiration; Isaw her try, more and more faintly, but always angrily, as if she con-demned a weakness in herself, to resist the captivating power that hepossessed; and finally, I saw her sharp glance soften, and her smile be-come quite gentle, and I ceased to be afraid of her as I had really beenall day, and we all sat about the fire, talking and laughing together,with as little reserve as if we had been children.

Whether it was because we had sat there so long, or because Steerforthwas resolved not to lose the advantage he had gained, I do not know; butwe did not remain in the dining-room more than five minutes after herdeparture. ‘She is playing her harp,’ said Steerforth, softly, at the drawing-room door, ‘and nobody but my mother has heard her do that, I believe,these three years.’ He said it with a curious smile, which was gone directly;and we went into the room and found her alone.

‘Don’t get up,’ said Steerforth (which she had already done)’ mydear Rosa, don’t! Be kind for once, and sing us an Irish song.’

‘What do you care for an Irish song?’ she returned.

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Dickens

‘Much!’ said Steerforth. ‘Much more than for any other. Here isDaisy, too, loves music from his soul. Sing us an Irish song, Rosa!and let me sit and listen as I used to do.’

He did not touch her, or the chair from which she had risen, butsat himself near the harp. She stood beside it for some little while, ina curious way, going through the motion of playing it with her righthand, but not sounding it. At length she sat down, and drew it to herwith one sudden action, and played and sang.

I don’t know what it was, in her touch or voice, that made that songthe most unearthly I have ever heard in my life, or can imagine. Therewas something fearful in the reality of it. It was as if it had never beenwritten, or set to music, but sprung out of passion within her; whichfound imperfect utterance in the low sounds of her voice, and crouchedagain when all was still. I was dumb when she leaned beside the harpagain, playing it, but not sounding it, with her right hand.

A minute more, and this had roused me from my trance:—Steerforthhad left his seat, and gone to her, and had put his arm laughingly abouther, and had said, ‘Come, Rosa, for the future we will love each othervery much!’ And she had struck him, and had thrown him off with thefury of a wild cat, and had burst out of the room.

‘What is the matter with Rosa?’ said Mrs. Steerforth, coming in.‘She has been an angel, mother,’ returned Steerforth, ‘for a little

while; and has run into the opposite extreme, since, by way of com-pensation.’

‘You should be careful not to irritate her, James. Her temper hasbeen soured, remember, and ought not to be tried.’

Rosa did not come back; and no other mention was made of her,until I went with Steerforth into his room to say Good night. Then helaughed about her, and asked me if I had ever seen such a fierce littlepiece of incomprehensibility.

I expressed as much of my astonishment as was then capable ofexpression, and asked if he could guess what it was that she had takenso much amiss, so suddenly.

‘Oh, Heaven knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘Anything you like—or noth-ing! I told you she took everything, herself included, to a grindstone,and sharpened it. She is an edge-tool, and requires great care in deal-ing with. She is always dangerous. Good night!’

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‘Good night!’ said I, ‘my dear Steerforth! I shall be gone before you wakein the morning. Good night!’

He was unwilling to let me go; and stood, holding me out, with ahand on each of my shoulders, as he had done in my own room.

‘Daisy,’ he said, with a smile—’for though that’s not the nameyour godfathers and godmothers gave you, it’s the name I like best tocall you by—and I wish, I wish, I wish, you could give it to me!’

‘Why so I can, if I choose,’ said I.‘Daisy, if anything should ever separate us, you must think of me

at my best, old boy. Come! Let us make that bargain. Think of me atmy best, if circumstances should ever part us!’

‘You have no best to me, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘and no worst. You arealways equally loved, and cherished in my heart.’

So much compunction for having ever wronged him, even by ashapeless thought, did I feel within me, that the confession of havingdone so was rising to my lips. But for the reluctance I had to betraythe confidence of Agnes, but for my uncertainty how to approachthe subject with no risk of doing so, it would have reached thembefore he said, ‘God bless you, Daisy, and good night!’ In my doubt,it did not reach them; and we shook hands, and we parted.

I was up with the dull dawn, and, having dressed as quietly as I could,looked into his room. He was fast asleep; lying, easily, with his headupon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

The time came in its season, and that was very soon, when I al-most wondered that nothing troubled his repose, as I looked at him.But he slept—let me think of him so again—as I had often seen himsleep at school; and thus, in this silent hour, I left him.

—Never more, oh God forgive you, Steerforth! to touch that pas-sive hand in love and friendship. Never, never more!

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CHAPTER 30A LOSS

I GOT DOWN TO Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. Iknew that Peggotty’s spare room—my room—was likely to haveoccupation enough in a little while, if that great Visitor, before whosepresence all the living must give place, were not already in the house;so I betook myself to the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.

It was ten o’clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut,and the town was dull. When I came to Omer and Joram’s, I foundthe shutters up, but the shop door standing open. As I could obtaina perspective view of Mr. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by theparlour door, I entered, and asked him how he was.

‘Why, bless my life and soul!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘how do you findyourself? Take a seat.—Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?’

‘By no means,’ said I. ‘I like it—in somebody else’s pipe.’‘What, not in your own, eh?’ Mr. Omer returned, laughing. ‘All

the better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke,myself, for the asthma.’

Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat downagain very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply ofthat necessary, without which he must perish.

‘I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,’ said I.Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook

his head.‘Do you know how he is tonight?’ I asked.‘The very question I should have put to you, sir,’ returned Mr.

Omer, ‘but on account of delicacy. It’s one of the drawbacks of ourline of business. When a party’s ill, we can’t ask how the party is.’

The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my appre-

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hensions too, when I went in, of hearing the old tune. On its beingmentioned, I recognized it, however, and said as much.

‘Yes, yes, you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, nodding his head. ‘Wedursn’t do it. Bless you, it would be a shock that the generality ofparties mightn’t recover, to say “Omer and Joram’s compliments,and how do you find yourself this morning?”—or this afternoon—as it may be.’

Mr. Omer and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer recruited hiswind by the aid of his pipe.

‘It’s one of the things that cut the trade off from attentions theycould often wish to show,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Take myself. If I haveknown Barkis a year, to move to as he went by, I have known himforty years. But I can’t go and say, “how is he?”’

I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so.‘I’m not more self-interested, I hope, than another man,’ said Mr.

Omer. ‘Look at me! My wind may fail me at any moment, and itain’t likely that, to my own knowledge, I’d be self-interested undersuch circumstances. I say it ain’t likely, in a man who knows his windwill go, when it does go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and thatman a grandfather,’ said Mr. Omer.

I said, ‘Not at all.’‘It ain’t that I complain of my line of business,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It

ain’t that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings.What I wish is, that parties was brought up stronger-minded.’

Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face, took severalpuffs in silence; and then said, resuming his first point:

‘Accordingly we’re obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, tolimit ourselves to Em’ly. She knows what our real objects are, and shedon’t have any more alarms or suspicions about us, than if we was somany lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the house,in fact (she’s there, after hours, helping her aunt a bit),to ask her how he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait till theycome back, they’d give you full partic’lers. Will you take something?A glass of srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water, myself,’said Mr. Omer, taking up his glass, ‘because it’s considered softeningto the passages, by which this troublesome breath of mine gets intoaction. But, Lord bless you,’ said Mr. Omer, huskily, ‘it ain’t the

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passages that’s out of order! “Give me breath enough,” said I to mydaughter Minnie, “and I’ll find passages, my dear.”’

He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to seehim laugh. When he was again in a condition to be talked to, I thankedhim for the proffered refreshment, which I declined, as I had just haddinner; and, observing that I would wait, since he was so good as toinvite me, until his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I in-quired how little Emily was?

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub hischin: ‘I tell you truly, I shall be glad when her marriage has taken place.’

‘Why so?’ I inquired.‘Well, she’s unsettled at present,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It ain’t that she’s

not as pretty as ever, for she’s prettier—I do assure you, she is prettier.It ain’t that she don’t work as well as ever, for she does. She wasworth any six, and she IS worth any six. But somehow she wantsheart. If you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again,and smoking a little, ‘what I mean in a general way by the expression,“A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, my hearties,hurrah!” I should say to you, that that was—in a general way—whatI miss in Em’ly.’

Mr. Omer’s face and manner went for so much, that I could con-scientiously nod my head, as divining his meaning. My quickness ofapprehension seemed to please him, and he went on: ‘Now I con-sider this is principally on account of her being in an unsettled state,you see. We have talked it over a good deal, her uncle and myself,and her sweetheart and myself, after business; and I consider it isprincipally on account of her being unsettled. You must always recol-lect of Em’ly,’ said Mr. Omer, shaking his head gently, ‘that she’s amost extraordinary affectionate little thing. The proverb says, “Youcan’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” Well, I don’t know aboutthat. I rather think you may, if you begin early in life. She has madea home out of that old boat, sir, that stone and marble couldn’t beat.’

‘I am sure she has!’ said I.‘To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle,’ said

Mr. Omer; ‘to see the way she holds on to him, tighter and tighter,and closer and closer, every day, is to see a sight. Now, you know,there’s a struggle going on when that’s the case. Why should it be

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made a longer one than is needful?’I listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acquiesced, with

all my heart, in what he said.‘Therefore, I mentioned to them,’ said Mr. Omer, in a comfort-

able, easy-going tone, ‘this. I said, “Now, don’t consider Em’ly naileddown in point of time, at all. Make it your own time. Her serviceshave been more valuable than was supposed; her learning has beenquicker than was supposed; Omer and Joram can run their penthrough what remains; and she’s free when you wish. If she likes tomake any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of doing anylittle thing for us at home, very well. If she don’t, very well still.We’re no losers, anyhow.” For—don’t you see,’ said Mr. Omer, touch-ing me with his pipe, ‘it ain’t likely that a man so short of breath asmyself, and a grandfather too, would go and strain points with alittle bit of a blue-eyed blossom, like her?’

‘Not at all, I am certain,’ said I.‘Not at all! You’re right!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir, her cousin—

you know it’s a cousin she’s going to be married to?’‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘I know him well.’‘Of course you do,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir! Her cousin being, as

it appears, in good work, and well to do, thanked me in a very manlysort of manner for this (conducting himself altogether, I must say, ina way that gives me a high opinion of him), and went and took ascomfortable a little house as you or I could wish to clap eyes on.That little house is now furnished right through, as neat and com-plete as a doll’s parlour; and but for Barkis’s illness having taken thisbad turn, poor fellow, they would have been man and wife—I daresay, by this time. As it is, there’s a postponement.’

‘And Emily, Mr. Omer?’ I inquired. ‘Has she become more settled?’‘Why that, you know,’ he returned, rubbing his double chin again, ‘can’t

naturally be expected. The prospect of the change and separation, and allthat, is, as one may say, close to her and far away from her, both at once.Barkis’s death needn’t put it off much, but his lingering might. Anyway,it’s an uncertain state of matters, you see.’

‘I see,’ said I.‘Consequently,’ pursued Mr. Omer, ‘Em’ly’s still a little down,

and a little fluttered; perhaps, upon the whole, she’s more so than she

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was. Every day she seems to get fonder and fonder of her uncle, andmore loth to part from all of us. A kind word from me brings thetears into her eyes; and if you was to see her with my daughter Minnie’slittle girl, you’d never forget it. Bless my heart alive!’ said Mr. Omer,pondering, ‘how she loves that child!’

Having so favourable an opportunity, it occurred to me to ask Mr.Omer, before our conversation should be interrupted by the return ofhis daughter and her husband, whether he knew anything of Martha.

‘Ah!’ he rejoined, shaking his head, and looking very much de-jected. ‘No good. A sad story, sir, however you come to know it. Inever thought there was harm in the girl. I wouldn’t wish to mentionit before my daughter Minnie—for she’d take me up directly—but Inever did. None of us ever did.’

Mr. Omer, hearing his daughter’s footstep before I heard it, touchedme with his pipe, and shut up one eye, as a caution. She and herhusband came in immediately afterwards.

Their report was, that Mr. Barkis was ‘as bad as bad could be’; thathe was quite unconscious; and that Mr. Chillip had mournfully saidin the kitchen, on going away just now, that the College of Physi-cians, the College of Surgeons, and Apothecaries’ Hall, if they wereall called in together, couldn’t help him. He was past both Colleges,Mr. Chillip said, and the Hall could only poison him.

Hearing this, and learning that Mr. Peggotty was there, I determinedto go to the house at once. I bade good night to Mr. Omer, and to Mr.and Mrs. Joram; and directed my steps thither, with a solemn feeling,which made Mr. Barkis quite a new and different creature.

My low tap at the door was answered by Mr. Peggotty. He wasnot so much surprised to see me as I had expected. I remarked this inPeggotty, too, when she came down; and I have seen it since; and Ithink, in the expectation of that dread surprise, all other changes andsurprises dwindle into nothing.

I shook hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into the kitchen,while he softly closed the door. Little Emily was sitting by the fire,with her hands before her face. Ham was standing near her.

We spoke in whispers; listening, between whiles, for any sound inthe room above. I had not thought of it on the occasion of my lastvisit, but how strange it was to me, now, to miss Mr. Barkis out ofthe kitchen!

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‘This is very kind of you, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty.‘It’s oncommon kind,’ said Ham.‘Em’ly, my dear,’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘See here! Here’s Mas’r Davy

come! What, cheer up, pretty! Not a wured to Mas’r Davy?’There was a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The coldness

of her hand when I touched it, I can feel yet. Its only sign of anima-tion was to shrink from mine; and then she glided from the chair,and creeping to the other side of her uncle, bowed herself, silentlyand trembling still, upon his breast.

‘It’s such a loving art,’ said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her rich hairwith his great hard hand, ‘that it can’t abear the sorrer of this. It’snat’ral in young folk, Mas’r Davy, when they’re new to these heretrials, and timid, like my little bird,—it’s nat’ral.’

She clung the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face, norspoke a word.

‘It’s getting late, my dear,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and here’s Ham comefur to take you home. Theer! Go along with t’other loving art! What’Em’ly? Eh, my pretty?’

The sound of her voice had not reached me, but he bent his headas if he listened to her, and then said:

‘Let you stay with your uncle? Why, you doen’t mean to ask methat! Stay with your uncle, Moppet? When your husband that’ll beso soon, is here fur to take you home? Now a person wouldn’t thinkit, fur to see this little thing alongside a rough-weather chap like me,’said Mr. Peggotty, looking round at both of us, with infinite pride;‘but the sea ain’t more salt in it than she has fondness in her for heruncle—a foolish little Em’ly!’

‘Em’ly’s in the right in that, Mas’r Davy!’ said Ham. ‘Lookee here!As Em’ly wishes of it, and as she’s hurried and frightened, like, be-sides, I’ll leave her till morning. Let me stay too!’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘You doen’t ought—a married manlike you—or what’s as good—to take and hull away a day’s work.And you doen’t ought to watch and work both. That won’t do. Yougo home and turn in. You ain’t afeerd of Em’ly not being took goodcare on, I know.’ Ham yielded to this persuasion, and took his hat togo. Even when he kissed her.—and I never saw him approach her,but I felt that nature had given him the soul of a gentleman—she

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seemed to cling closer to her uncle, even to the avoidance of herchosen husband. I shut the door after him, that it might cause nodisturbance of the quiet that prevailed; and when I turned back, Ifound Mr. Peggotty still talking to her.

‘Now, I’m a going upstairs to tell your aunt as Mas’r Davy’s here,and that’ll cheer her up a bit,’ he said. ‘Sit ye down by the fire, thewhile, my dear, and warm those mortal cold hands. You doen’t need tobe so fearsome, and take on so much. What? You’ll go along withme?—Well! come along with me—come! If her uncle was turned outof house and home, and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas’r Davy,’said Mr. Peggotty, with no less pride than before, ‘it’s my belief she’dgo along with him, now! But there’ll be someone else, soon,—some-one else, soon, Em’ly!’

Afterwards, when I went upstairs, as I passed the door of mylittle chamber, which was dark, I had an indistinct impression ofher being within it, cast down upon the floor. But, whether it wasreally she, or whether it was a confusion of the shadows in theroom, I don’t know now.

I had leisure to think, before the kitchen fire, of pretty little Emily’sdread of death—which, added to what Mr. Omer had told me, Itook to be the cause of her being so unlike herself—and I had leisure,before Peggotty came down, even to think more leniently of theweakness of it: as I sat counting the ticking of the clock, and deepen-ing my sense of the solemn hush around me. Peggotty took me inher arms, and blessed and thanked me over and over again for beingsuch a comfort to her (that was what she said) in her distress. Shethen entreated me to come upstairs, sobbing that Mr. Barkis hadalways liked me and admired me; that he had often talked of me,before he fell into a stupor; and that she believed, in case of his com-ing to himself again, he would brighten up at sight of me, if he couldbrighten up at any earthly thing.

The probability of his ever doing so, appeared to me, when I sawhim, to be very small. He was lying with his head and shoulders outof bed, in an uncomfortable attitude, half resting on the box whichhad cost him so much pain and trouble. I learned, that, when he waspast creeping out of bed to open it, and past assuring himself of itssafety by means of the divining rod I had seen him use, he had re-

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quired to have it placed on the chair at the bed-side, where he hadever since embraced it, night and day. His arm lay on it now. Timeand the world were slipping from beneath him, but the box wasthere; and the last words he had uttered were (in an explanatory tone)‘Old clothes!’

‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty, almost cheerfully: bending overhim, while her brother and I stood at the bed’s foot. ‘Here’s my dearboy—my dear boy, Master Davy, who brought us together, Barkis!That you sent messages by, you know! Won’t you speak to MasterDavy?’

He was as mute and senseless as the box, from which his formderived the only expression it had.

‘He’s a going out with the tide,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me, behindhis hand.

My eyes were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty’s; but I repeated in awhisper, ‘With the tide?’

‘People can’t die, along the coast,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘except when thetide’s pretty nigh out. They can’t be born, unless it’s pretty nigh in—notproperly born, till flood. He’s a going out with the tide. It’s ebb at half-arter three, slack water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he’ll hold hisown till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.’

We remained there, watching him, a long time—hours. Whatmysterious influence my presence had upon him in that state of hissenses, I shall not pretend to say; but when he at last began to wanderfeebly, it is certain he was muttering about driving me to school.

‘He’s coming to himself,’ said Peggotty.Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and rev-

erence. ‘They are both a-going out fast.’‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty.‘C. P. Barkis,’ he cried faintly. ‘No better woman anywhere!’‘Look! Here’s Master Davy!’ said Peggotty. For he now opened his

eyes.I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to

stretch out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile:‘Barkis is willin’!’And, it being low water, he went out with the tide.

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CHAPTER 31A GREATER LOSS

IT WAS NOT DIFFICULT for me, on Peggotty’s solicitation, to resolve tostay where I was, until after the remains of the poor carrier shouldhave made their last journey to Blunderstone. She had long agobought, out of her own savings, a little piece of ground in our oldchurchyard near the grave of ‘her sweet girl’, as she always called mymother; and there they were to rest.

In keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I could for her (littleenough at the utmost), I was as grateful, I rejoice to think, as evennow I could wish myself to have been. But I am afraid I had a su-preme satisfaction, of a personal and professional nature, in takingcharge of Mr. Barkis’s will, and expounding its contents.

I may claim the merit of having originated the suggestion that thewill should be looked for in the box. After some search, it was foundin the box, at the bottom of a horse’s nose-bag; wherein (besides hay)there was discovered an old gold watch, with chain and seals, whichMr. Barkis had worn on his wedding-day, and which had never beenseen before or since; a silver tobacco-stopper, in the form of a leg; animitation lemon, full of minute cups and saucers, which I have someidea Mr. Barkis must have purchased to present to me when I was achild, and afterwards found himself unable to part with; eighty-sevenguineas and a half, in guineas and half-guineas; two hundred and tenpounds, in perfectly clean Bank notes; certain receipts for Bank ofEngland stock; an old horseshoe, a bad shilling, a piece of camphor,and an oyster-shell. From the circumstance of the latter article hav-ing been much polished, and displaying prismatic colours on theinside, I conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general ideas about pearls,which never resolved themselves into anything definite.

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For years and years, Mr. Barkis had carried this box, on all hisjourneys, every day. That it might the better escape notice, he hadinvented a fiction that it belonged to ‘Mr. Blackboy’, and was ‘to beleft with Barkis till called for’; a fable he had elaborately written onthe lid, in characters now scarcely legible.

He had hoarded, all these years, I found, to good purpose. Hisproperty in money amounted to nearly three thousand pounds. Ofthis he bequeathed the interest of one thousand to Mr. Peggotty forhis life; on his decease, the principal to be equally divided betweenPeggotty, little Emily, and me, or the survivor or survivors of us,share and share alike. All the rest he died possessed of, he bequeathedto Peggotty; whom he left residuary legatee, and sole executrix ofthat his last will and testament.

I felt myself quite a proctor when I read this document aloud withall possible ceremony, and set forth its provisions, any number oftimes, to those whom they concerned. I began to think there wasmore in the Commons than I had supposed. I examined the willwith the deepest attention, pronounced it perfectly formal in all re-spects, made a pencil-mark or so in the margin, and thought it ratherextraordinary that I knew so much.

In this abstruse pursuit; in making an account for Peggotty, of allthe property into which she had come; in arranging all the affairs inan orderly manner; and in being her referee and adviser on everypoint, to our joint delight; I passed the week before the funeral. I didnot see little Emily in that interval, but they told me she was to bequietly married in a fortnight.

I did not attend the funeral in character, if I may venture to say so. Imean I was not dressed up in a black coat and a streamer, to frightenthe birds; but I walked over to Blunderstone early in the morning, andwas in the churchyard when it came, attended only by Peggotty andher brother. The mad gentleman looked on, out of my little window;Mr. Chillip’s baby wagged its heavy head, and rolled its goggle eyes, atthe clergyman, over its nurse’s shoulder; Mr. Omer breathed short inthe background; no one else was there; and it was very quiet. We walkedabout the churchyard for an hour, after all was over; and pulled someyoung leaves from the tree above my mother’s grave.

A dread falls on me here. A cloud is lowering on the distant town,

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towards which I retraced my solitary steps. I fear to approach it. Icannot bear to think of what did come, upon that memorable night;of what must come again, if I go on.

It is no worse, because I write of it. It would be no better, if Istopped my most unwilling hand. It is done. Nothing can undo it;nothing can make it otherwise than as it was.

My old nurse was to go to London with me next day, on thebusiness of the will. Little Emily was passing that day at Mr. Omer’s.We were all to meet in the old boathouse that night. Ham wouldbring Emily at the usual hour. I would walk back at my leisure. Thebrother and sister would return as they had come, and be expectingus, when the day closed in, at the fireside.

I parted from them at the wicket-gate, where visionary Strap hadrested with Roderick Random’s knapsack in the days of yore; and,instead of going straight back, walked a little distance on the road toLowestoft. Then I turned, and walked back towards Yarmouth. Istayed to dine at a decent alehouse, some mile or two from the FerryI have mentioned before; and thus the day wore away, and it wasevening when I reached it. Rain was falling heavily by that time, andit was a wild night; but there was a moon behind the clouds, and itwas not dark.

I was soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty’s house, and of the lightwithin it shining through the window. A little floundering across thesand, which was heavy, brought me to the door, and I went in.

It looked very comfortable indeed. Mr. Peggotty had smoked hisevening pipe and there were preparations for some supper by and by.The fire was bright, the ashes were thrown up, the locker was readyfor little Emily in her old place. In her own old place sat Peggotty,once more, looking (but for her dress) as if she had never left it. Shehad fallen back, already, on the society of the work-box with St.Paul’s upon the lid, the yard-measure in the cottage, and the bit ofwax-candle; and there they all were, just as if they had never beendisturbed. Mrs. Gummidge appeared to be fretting a little, in her oldcorner; and consequently looked quite natural, too.

‘You’re first of the lot, Mas’r Davy!’ said Mr. Peggotty with a happyface. ‘Doen’t keep in that coat, sir, if it’s wet.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, giving him my outer coat to

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hang up. ‘It’s quite dry.’‘So ’tis!’ said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoulders. ‘As a chip! Sit ye

down, sir. It ain’t o’ no use saying welcome to you, but you’re wel-come, kind and hearty.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. Well, Peggotty!’ saidI, giving her a kiss. ‘And how are you, old woman?’

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Peggotty, sitting down beside us, and rub-bing his hands in his sense of relief from recent trouble, and in thegenuine heartiness of his nature; ‘there’s not a woman in the wureld,sir—as I tell her—that need to feel more easy in her mind than her!She done her dooty by the departed, and the departed know’d it; andthe departed done what was right by her, as she done what was rightby the departed;—and—and—and it’s all right!’

Mrs. Gummidge groaned.‘Cheer up, my pritty mawther!’ said Mr. Peggotty. (But he shook

his head aside at us, evidently sensible of the tendency of the lateoccurrences to recall the memory of the old one.) ‘Doen’t be down!Cheer up, for your own self, on’y a little bit, and see if a good dealmore doen’t come nat’ral!’

‘Not to me, Dan’l,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge. ‘Nothink’s nat’ralto me but to be lone and lorn.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peggotty, soothing her sorrows.‘Yes, yes, Dan’l!’ said Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I ain’t a person to live

with them as has had money left. Thinks go too contrary with me. Ihad better be a riddance.’

‘Why, how should I ever spend it without you?’ said Mr. Peggotty,with an air of serious remonstrance. ‘What are you a talking on?Doen’t I want you more now, than ever I did?’

‘I know’d I was never wanted before!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, witha pitiable whimper, ‘and now I’m told so! How could I expect to bewanted, being so lone and lorn, and so contrary!’

Mr. Peggotty seemed very much shocked at himself for havingmade a speech capable of this unfeeling construction, but was pre-vented from replying, by Peggotty’s pulling his sleeve, and shakingher head. After looking at Mrs. Gummidge for some moments, insore distress of mind, he glanced at the Dutch clock, rose, snuffedthe candle, and put it in the window.

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‘Theer!’said Mr. Peggotty, cheerily.’Theer we are, MissisGummidge!’ Mrs. Gummidge slightly groaned. ‘Lighted up,accordin’ to custom! You’re a wonderin’ what that’s fur, sir! Well, it’sfur our little Em’ly. You see, the path ain’t over light or cheerful arterdark; and when I’m here at the hour as she’s a comin’ home, I putsthe light in the winder. That, you see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, bendingover me with great glee, ‘meets two objects. She says, says Em’ly,“Theer’s home!” she says. And likewise, says Em’ly, “My uncle’s theer!”Fur if I ain’t theer, I never have no light showed.’

‘You’re a baby!’ said Peggotty; very fond of him for it, if she thought so.‘Well,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with his legs pretty wide

apart, and rubbing his hands up and down them in his comfortablesatisfaction, as he looked alternately at us and at the fire. ‘I doen’tknow but I am. Not, you see, to look at.’

‘Not azackly,’ observed Peggotty.‘No,’ laughed Mr. Peggotty, ‘not to look at, but to—to consider

on, you know. I doen’t care, bless you! Now I tell you. When I go alooking and looking about that theer pritty house of our Em’ly’s,I’m—I’m Gormed,’ said Mr. Peggotty, with sudden emphasis—’theer! I can’t say more—if I doen’t feel as if the littlest things was her,a’most. I takes ‘em up and I put ‘em down, and I touches of ‘em asdelicate as if they was our Em’ly. So ’tis with her little bonnets andthat. I couldn’t see one on ‘em rough useda purpose—not fur the whole wureld. There’s a babby fur you, inthe form of a great Sea Porkypine!’ said Mr. Peggotty, relieving hisearnestness with a roar of laughter.

Peggotty and I both laughed, but not so loud.‘It’s my opinion, you see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a delighted face,

after some further rubbing of his legs, ‘as this is along of my havin’played with her so much, and made believe as we was Turks, and French,and sharks, and every wariety of forinners—bless you, yes; and lionsand whales, and I doen’t know what all!—when she warn’t no higherthan my knee. I’ve got into the way on it, you know. Why, this herecandle, now!’ said Mr. Peggotty, gleefully holding out his hand to-wards it, ‘I know wery well that arter she’s married and gone, I shallput that candle theer, just the same as now. I know wery well thatwhen I’m here o’ nights (and where else should I live, bless your arts,

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whatever fortun’ I come into!) and she ain’t here or I ain’t theer, I shallput the candle in the winder, and sit afore the fire, pretending I’mexpecting of her, like I’m a doing now. there’s a babby for you,’ saidMr. Peggotty, with another roar, ‘in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Why,at the present minute, when I see the candle sparkle up, I says to my-self, “She’s a looking at it! Em’ly’s a coming!” There’s a babby for you,in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Right for all that,’ said Mr. Peggotty,stopping in his roar, and smiting his hands together; ‘fur here she is!’

It was only Ham. The night should have turned more wet since Icame in, for he had a large sou’wester hat on, slouched over his face.

‘Wheer’s Em’ly?’ said Mr. Peggotty.Ham made a motion with his head, as if she were outside. Mr. Peggotty

took the light from the window, trimmed it, put it on the table, and wasbusily stirring the fire, when Ham, who had not moved, said:

‘Mas’r Davy, will you come out a minute, and see what Em’ly andme has got to show you?’

We went out. As I passed him at the door, I saw, to my astonishmentand fright, that he was deadly pale. He pushed me hastily into the openair, and closed the door upon us. Only upon us two.

‘Ham! what’s the matter?’‘Mas’r Davy!—’ Oh, for his broken heart, how dreadfully he wept!I was paralysed by the sight of such grief. I don’t know what I

thought, or what I dreaded. I could only look at him.‘Ham! Poor good fellow! For Heaven’s sake, tell me what’s the

matter!’‘My love, Mas’r Davy—the pride and hope of my art—her that I’d

have died for, and would die for now—she’s gone!’‘Gone!’‘Em’ly’s run away! Oh, Mas’r Davy, think how she’s run away,

when I pray my good and gracious God to kill her (her that is so dearabove all things) sooner than let her come to ruin and disgrace!’

The face he turned up to the troubled sky, the quivering of hisclasped hands, the agony of his figure, remain associated with thelonely waste, in my remembrance, to this hour. It is always nightthere, and he is the only object in the scene.

‘You’re a scholar,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘and know what’s right andbest. What am I to say, indoors? How am I ever to break it to him,Mas’r Davy?’

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I saw the door move, and instinctively tried to hold the latch onthe outside, to gain a moment’s time. It was too late. Mr. Peggottythrust forth his face; and never could I forget the change that cameupon it when he saw us, if I were to live five hundred years.

I remember a great wail and cry, and the women hanging abouthim, and we all standing in the room; I with a paper in my hand,which Ham had given me; Mr. Peggotty, with his vest torn open, hishair wild, his face and lips quite white, and blood trickling down hisbosom (it had sprung from his mouth, I think), looking fixedly at me.

‘Read it, sir,’ he said, in a low shivering voice. ‘Slow, please. I doen’tknow as I can understand.’

In the midst of the silence of death, I read thus, from a blottedletter:

‘“When you, who love me so much better than I ever have deserved,even when my mind was innocent, see this, I shall be far away.”’

‘I shall be fur away,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Stop! Em’ly fur away. Well!’

‘“When I leave my dear home—my dear home—oh, my dearhome!—in the morning,”’

the letter bore date on the previous night:

‘“—it will be never to come back, unless he brings me back a lady.This will be found at night, many hours after, instead of me. Oh, ifyou knew how my heart is torn. If even you, that I have wronged somuch, that never can forgive me, could only know what I suffer! Iam too wicked to write about myself! Oh, take comfort in thinkingthat I am so bad. Oh, for mercy’s sake, tell uncle that I never lovedhim half so dear as now. Oh, don’t remember how affectionate andkind you have all been to me—don’t remember we were ever to bemarried—but try to think as if I died when I was little, and wasburied somewhere. Pray Heaven that I am going away from, havecompassion on my uncle! Tell him that I never loved him half sodear. Be his comfort. Love some good girl that will be what I wasonce to uncle, and be true to you, and worthy of you, and know no

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shame but me. God bless all! I’ll pray for all, often, on my knees. Ifhe don’t bring me back a lady, and I don’t pray for my own self, I’llpray for all. My parting love to uncle. My last tears, and my lastthanks, for uncle!”’

That was all.He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still looking at me. At length I

ventured to take his hand, and to entreat him, as well as I could, to endeav-our to get some command of himself. He replied, ‘I thankee, sir, I thankee!’without moving.

Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sensible of his afflic-tion, that he wrung his hand; but, otherwise, he remained in thesame state, and no one dared to disturb him.

Slowly, at last, he moved his eyes from my face, as if he werewaking from a vision, and cast them round the room. Then he said,in a low voice:

‘Who’s the man? I want to know his name.’Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock that struck me

back.‘There’s a man suspected,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Who is it?’‘Mas’r Davy!’ implored Ham. ‘Go out a bit, and let me tell him

what I must. You doen’t ought to hear it, sir.’I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chair, and tried to utter

some reply; but my tongue was fettered, and my sight was weak.‘I want to know his name!’ I heard said once more.‘For some time past,’ Ham faltered, ‘there’s been a servant about

here, at odd times. There’s been a gen’lm’n too. Both of ‘em be-longed to one another.’

Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now looking at him.‘The servant,’ pursued Ham, ‘was seen along with—our poor

girl—last night. He’s been in hiding about here, this week or over.He was thought to have gone, but he was hiding. Doen’t stay, Mas’rDavy, doen’t!’

I felt Peggotty’s arm round my neck, but I could not have movedif the house had been about to fall upon me.

‘A strange chay and hosses was outside town, this morning, on theNorwich road, a’most afore the day broke,’ Ham went on. ‘The

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servant went to it, and come from it, and went to it again. When hewent to it again, Em’ly was nigh him. The t’other was inside. He’sthe man.’

‘For the Lord’s love,’ said Mr. Peggotty, falling back, and putting out hishand, as if to keep off what he dreaded. ‘Doen’t tell me his name’s Steerforth!’

‘Mas’r Davy,’ exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, ‘it ain’t no faultof yourn—and I am far from laying of it to you—but his name isSteerforth, and he’s a damned villain!’

Mr. Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, and moved no more,until he seemed to wake again, all at once, and pulled down his roughcoat from its peg in a corner.

‘Bear a hand with this! I’m struck of a heap, and can’t do it,’ hesaid, impatiently. ‘Bear a hand and help me. Well!’ when somebodyhad done so. ‘Now give me that theer hat!’

Ham asked him whither he was going.‘I’m a going to seek my niece. I’m a going to seek my Em’ly. I’m a

going, first, to stave in that theer boat, and sink it where I wouldhave drownded him, as I’m a living soul, if I had had one thought ofwhat was in him! As he sat afore me,’ he said, wildly, holding out hisclenched right hand, ‘as he sat afore me, face to face, strike me downdead, but I’d have drownded him, and thought it right!—I’m a go-ing to seek my niece.’

‘Where?’ cried Ham, interposing himself before the door.‘Anywhere! I’m a going to seek my niece through the wureld. I’m

a going to find my poor niece in her shame, and bring her back. Noone stop me! I tell you I’m a going to seek my niece!’

‘No, no!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, coming between them, in a fitof crying. ‘No, no, Dan’l, not as you are now. Seek her in a littlewhile, my lone lorn Dan’l, and that’ll be but right! but not as you arenow. Sit ye down, and give me your forgiveness for having ever beena worrit to you, Dan’l—what have my contraries ever been to this!—and let us speak a word about them times when she was first anorphan, and when Ham was too, and when I was a poor widderwoman, and you took me in. It’ll soften your poor heart, Dan’l,’laying her head upon his shoulder, ‘and you’ll bear your sorrow bet-ter; for you know the promise, Dan’l, “As you have done it unto oneof the least of these, you have done it unto me”,—and that can never

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fail under this roof, that’s been our shelter for so many, many year!’He was quite passive now; and when I heard him crying, the im-

pulse that had been upon me to go down upon my knees, and asktheir pardon for the desolation I had caused, and curse Steer—forth,yielded to a better feeling, My overcharged heart found the samerelief, and I cried too.

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CHAPTER 32THE BEGINNING OF A

LONG JOURNEY

WHAT IS NATURAL IN ME, is natural in many other men, I infer, and soI am not afraid to write that I never had loved Steerforth better thanwhen the ties that bound me to him were broken. In the keen dis-tress of the discovery of his unworthiness, I thought more of all thatwas brilliant in him, I softened more towards all that was good inhim, I did more justice to the qualities that might have made him aman of a noble nature and a great name, than ever I had done in theheight of my devotion to him. Deeply as I felt my own unconsciouspart in his pollution of an honest home, I believed that if I had beenbrought face to face with him, I could not have uttered one reproach.I should have loved him so well still—though he fascinated me nolonger—I should have held in so much tenderness the memory ofmy affection for him, that I think I should have been as weak as aspirit-wounded child, in all but the entertainment of a thought thatwe could ever be re-united. That thought I never had. I felt, as he hadfelt, that all was at an end between us. What his remembrances of mewere, I have never known—they were light enough, perhaps, andeasily dismissed—but mine of him were as the remembrances of acherished friend, who was dead.

Yes, Steerforth, long removed from the scenes of this poor history!My sorrow may bear involuntary witness against you at the judge-ment Throne; but my angry thoughts or my reproaches never will, Iknow! The news of what had happened soon spread through thetown; insomuch that as I passed along the streets next morning, Ioverheard the people speaking of it at their doors. Many were hard

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upon her, some few were hard upon him, but towards her secondfather and her lover there was but one sentiment. Among all kinds ofpeople a respect for them in their distress prevailed, which was full ofgentleness and delicacy. The seafaring men kept apart, when thosetwo were seen early, walking with slow steps on the beach; and stoodin knots, talking compassionately among themselves.

It was on the beach, close down by the sea, that I found them. Itwould have been easy to perceive that they had not slept all last night,even if Peggotty had failed to tell me of their still sitting just as I leftthem, when it was broad day. They looked worn; and I thought Mr.Peggotty’s head was bowed in one night more than in all the years Ihad known him. But they were both as grave and steady as the seaitself, then lying beneath a dark sky, waveless—yet with a heavy rollupon it, as if it breathed in its rest—and touched, on the horizon,with a strip of silvery light from the unseen sun.

‘We have had a mort of talk, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me, whenwe had all three walked a little while in silence, ‘of what we oughtand doen’t ought to do. But we see our course now.’

I happened to glance at Ham, then looking out to sea upon thedistant light, and a frightful thought came into my mind—not thathis face was angry, for it was not; I recall nothing but an expression ofstern determination in it—that if ever he encountered Steerforth, hewould kill him.

‘My dooty here, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘is done. I’m a going toseek my—’ he stopped, and went on in a firmer voice: ‘I’m a goingto seek her. That’s my dooty evermore.’

He shook his head when I asked him where he would seek her, andinquired if I were going to London tomorrow? I told him I had notgone today, fearing to lose the chance of being of any service to him;but that I was ready to go when he would.

‘I’ll go along with you, sir,’ he rejoined, ‘if you’re agreeable, to-morrow.’

We walked again, for a while, in silence.‘Ham,’he presently resumed,’he’ll hold to his present work, and

go and live along with my sister. The old boat yonder—’‘Will you desert the old boat, Mr. Peggotty?’ I gently interposed.‘My station, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned, ‘ain’t there no longer; and if

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ever a boat foundered, since there was darkness on the face of thedeep, that one’s gone down. But no, sir, no; I doen’t mean as it shouldbe deserted. Fur from that.’

We walked again for a while, as before, until he explained:‘My wishes is, sir, as it shall look, day and night, winter and sum-

mer, as it has always looked, since she fust know’d it. If ever sheshould come a wandering back, I wouldn’t have the old place seemto cast her off, you understand, but seem to tempt her to draw nigherto ‘t, and to peep in, maybe, like a ghost, out of the wind and rain,through the old winder, at the old seat by the fire. Then, maybe,Mas’r Davy, seein’ none but Missis Gummidge there, she might takeheart to creep in, trembling; and might come to be laid down in herold bed, and rest her weary head where it was once so gay.’

I could not speak to him in reply, though I tried.‘Every night,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as reg’lar as the night comes, the

candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she shouldsee it, it may seem to say “Come back, my child, come back!” If everthere’s a knock, Ham (partic’ler a soft knock), arter dark, at youraunt’s door, doen’t you go nigh it. Let it be her—not you—that seesmy fallen child!’

He walked a little in front of us, and kept before us for someminutes. During this interval, I glanced at Ham again, and observingthe same expression on his face, and his eyes still directed to thedistant light, I touched his arm.

Twice I called him by his name, in the tone in which I might havetried to rouse a sleeper, before he heeded me. When I at last inquiredon what his thoughts were so bent, he replied:

‘On what’s afore me, Mas’r Davy; and over yon.’‘On the life before you, do you mean?’ He had pointed confusedly

out to sea.‘Ay, Mas’r Davy. I doen’t rightly know how ’tis, but from over yon

there seemed to me to come—the end of it like,’ looking at me as ifhe were waking, but with the same determined face.

‘What end?’ I asked, possessed by my former fear.‘I doen’t know,’he said, thoughtfully; ‘I was calling to mind that

the beginning of it all did take place here—and then the end come.But it’s gone! Mas’r Davy,’ he added; answering, as I think, my look;

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‘you han’t no call to be afeerd of me: but I’m kiender muddled; Idon’t fare to feel no matters,’—which was as much as to say that hewas not himself, and quite confounded.

Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and said nomore. The remembrance of this, in connexion with my formerthought, however, haunted me at intervals, even until the inexorableend came at its appointed time.

We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs.Gummidge, no longer moping in her especial corner, was busy pre-paring breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty’s hat, and placed his seat forhim, and spoke so comfortably and softly, that I hardly knew her.

‘Dan’l, my good man,’ said she, ‘you must eat and drink, and keepup your strength, for without it you’ll do nowt. Try, that’s a dearsoul! An if I disturb you with my clicketten,’ she meant her chatter-ing, ‘tell me so, Dan’l, and I won’t.’

When she had served us all, she withdrew to the window, whereshe sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts and otherclothes belonging to Mr. Peggotty, and neatly folding and packingthem in an old oilskin bag, such as sailors carry. Meanwhile, shecontinued talking, in the same quiet manner:

‘All times and seasons, you know, Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, ‘Ishall be allus here, and everythink will look accordin’ to your wishes.I’m a poor scholar, but I shall write to you, odd times, when you’reaway, and send my letters to Mas’r Davy. Maybe you’ll write to metoo, Dan’l, odd times, and tell me how you fare to feel upon yourlone lorn journies.’

‘You’ll be a solitary woman heer, I’m afeerd!’ said Mr. Peggotty.‘No, no, Dan’l,’ she returned, ‘I shan’t be that. Doen’t you mind

me. I shall have enough to do to keep a Beein for you’ (Mrs.Gummidge meant a home), ‘again you come back—to keep a Beeinhere for any that may hap to come back, Dan’l. In the fine time, Ishall set outside the door as I used to do. If any should come nigh,they shall see the old widder woman true to ‘em, a long way off.’

What a change in Mrs. Gummidge in a little time! She was anotherwoman. She was so devoted, she had such a quick perception of whatit would be well to say, and what it would be well to leave unsaid; shewas so forgetful of herself, and so regardful of the sorrow about her,

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that I held her in a sort of veneration. The work she did that day! Therewere many things to be brought up from the beach and stored in theouthouse—as oars, nets, sails, cordage, spars, lobster-pots, bags of bal-last, and the like; and though there was abundance of assistance ren-dered, there being not a pair of working hands on all that shore butwould have laboured hard for Mr. Peggotty, and been well paid inbeing asked to do it, yet she persisted, all day long, in toiling underweights that she was quite unequal to, and fagging to and fro on allsorts of unnecessary errands. As to deploring her misfortunes, she ap-peared to have entirely lost the recollection of ever having had any. Shepreserved an equable cheerfulness in the midst of her sympathy, whichwas not the least astonishing part of the change that had come over her.Querulousness was out of the question. I did not even observe hervoice to falter, or a tear to escape from her eyes, the whole day through,until twilight; when she and I and Mr. Peggotty being alone together,and he having fallen asleep in perfect exhaustion, she broke into a half-suppressed fit of sobbing and crying, and taking me to the door, said,‘Ever bless you, Mas’r Davy, be a friend to him, poor dear!’ Then, sheimmediately ran out of the house to wash her face, in order that shemight sit quietly beside him, and be found at work there, when heshould awake. In short I left her, when I went away at night, the propand staff of Mr. Peggotty’s affliction; and I could not meditate enoughupon the lesson that I read in Mrs. Gummidge, and the new experi-ence she unfolded to me.

It was between nine and ten o’clock when, strolling in a melan-choly manner through the town, I stopped at Mr. Omer’s door. Mr.Omer had taken it so much to heart, his daughter told me, that hehad been very low and poorly all day, and had gone to bed withouthis pipe.

‘A deceitful, bad-hearted girl,’ said Mrs. Joram. ‘There was no goodin her, ever!’

‘Don’t say so,’ I returned. ‘You don’t think so.’‘Yes, I do!’ cried Mrs. Joram, angrily.‘No, no,’ said I.Mrs. Joram tossed her head, endeavouring to be very stern and cross;

but she could not command her softer self, and began to cry. I was young,to be sure; but I thought much the better of her for this sympathy, and

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fancied it became her, as a virtuous wife and mother, very well indeed.‘What will she ever do!’ sobbed Minnie. ‘Where will she go! What

will become of her! Oh, how could she be so cruel, to herself and him!’I remembered the time when Minnie was a young and pretty girl;

and I was glad she remembered it too, so feelingly.‘My little Minnie,’ said Mrs. Joram, ‘has only just now been got

to sleep. Even in her sleep she is sobbing for Em’ly. All day long,little Minnie has cried for her, and asked me, over and over again,whether Em’ly was wicked? What can I say to her, when Em’ly tied aribbon off her own neck round little Minnie’s the last night she washere, and laid her head down on the pillow beside her till she was fastasleep! The ribbon’s round my little Minnie’s neck now. It ought notto be, perhaps, but what can I do? Em’ly is very bad, but they werefond of one another. And the child knows nothing!’

Mrs. Joram was so unhappy that her husband came out to takecare of her. Leaving them together, I went home to Peggotty’s; moremelancholy myself, if possible, than I had been yet.

That good creature—I mean Peggotty—all untired by her late anxi-eties and sleepless nights, was at her brother’s, where she meant tostay till morning. An old woman, who had been employed aboutthe house for some weeks past, while Peggotty had been unable toattend to it, was the house’s only other occupant besides myself. As Ihad no occasion for her services, I sent her to bed, by no meansagainst her will, and sat down before the kitchen fire a little while, tothink about all this.

I was blending it with the deathbed of the late Mr. Barkis, and wasdriving out with the tide towards the distance at which Ham hadlooked so singularly in the morning, when I was recalled from mywanderings by a knock at the door. There was a knocker upon thedoor, but it was not that which made the sound. The tap was from ahand, and low down upon the door, as if it were given by a child.

It made me start as much as if it had been the knock of a footman toa person of distinction. I opened the door; and at first looked down, tomy amazement, on nothing but a great umbrella that appeared to bewalking about of itself. But presently I discovered underneath it, MissMowcher.

I might not have been prepared to give the little creature a very kind

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reception, if, on her removing the umbrella, which her utmost effortswere unable to shut up, she had shown me the ‘volatile’ expression offace which had made so great an impression on me at our first and lastmeeting. But her face, as she turned it up to mine, was so earnest; andwhen I relieved her of the umbrella (which would have been an incon-venient one for the Irish Giant), she wrung her little hands in such anafflicted manner; that I rather inclined towards her.

‘Miss Mowcher!’ said I, after glancing up and down the emptystreet, without distinctly knowing what I expected to see besides;‘how do you come here? What is the matter?’ She motioned to mewith her short right arm, to shut the umbrella for her; and passingme hurriedly, went into the kitchen. When I had closed the door,and followed, with the umbrella in my hand, I found her sitting onthe corner of the fender—it was a low iron one, with two flat bars attop to stand plates upon—in the shadow of the boiler, swaying her-self backwards and forwards, and chafing her hands upon her kneeslike a person in pain.

Quite alarmed at being the only recipient of this untimely visit,and the only spectator of this portentous behaviour, I exclaimed again,‘Pray tell me, Miss Mowcher, what is the matter! are you ill?’

‘My dear young soul,’ returned Miss Mowcher, squeezing her handsupon her heart one over the other. ‘I am ill here, I am very ill. Tothink that it should come to this, when I might have known it andperhaps prevented it, if I hadn’t been a thoughtless fool!’

Again her large bonnet (very disproportionate to the figure) wentbackwards and forwards, in her swaying of her little body to and fro;while a most gigantic bonnet rocked, in unison with it, upon the wall.

‘I am surprised,’ I began, ‘to see you so distressed and serious’—when she interrupted me.

‘Yes, it’s always so!’ she said. ‘They are all surprised, these inconsid-erate young people, fairly and full grown, to see any natural feeling ina little thing like me! They make a plaything of me, use me for theiramusement, throw me away when they are tired, and wonder that Ifeel more than a toy horse or a wooden soldier! Yes, yes, that’s theway. The old way!’

‘It may be, with others,’ I returned, ‘but I do assure you it is notwith me. Perhaps I ought not to be at all surprised to see you as you

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are now: I know so little of you. I said, without consideration, whatI thought.’

‘What can I do?’ returned the little woman, standing up, and hold-ing out her arms to show herself. ‘See! What I am, my father was;and my sister is; and my brother is. I have worked for sister andbrother these many years—hard, Mr. Copperfield—all day. I mustlive. I do no harm. If there are people so unreflecting or so cruel, as tomake a jest of me, what is left for me to do but to make a jest ofmyself, them, and everything? If I do so, for the time, whose fault isthat? Mine?’

No. Not Miss Mowcher’s, I perceived.‘If I had shown myself a sensitive dwarf to your false friend,’ pur-

sued the little woman, shaking her head at me, with reproachful ear-nestness, ‘how much of his help or good will do you think I shouldever have had? If little Mowcher (who had no hand, young gentleman,in the making of herself) addressed herself to him, or the like of him,because of her misfortunes, when do you suppose her small voice wouldhave been heard? Little Mowcher would have as much need to live, ifshe was the bitterest and dullest of pigmies; but she couldn’t do it. No.She might whistle for her bread and butter till she died of Air.’

Miss Mowcher sat down on the fender again, and took out herhandkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

‘Be thankful for me, if you have a kind heart, as I think you have,’she said, ‘that while I know well what I am, I can be cheerful andendure it all. I am thankful for myself, at any rate, that I can find mytiny way through the world, without being beholden to anyone; andthat in return for all that is thrown at me, in folly or vanity, as I goalong, I can throw bubbles back. If I don’t brood over all I want, it isthe better for me, and not the worse for anyone. If I am a playthingfor you giants, be gentle with me.’

Miss Mowcher replaced her handkerchief in her pocket, lookingat me with very intent expression all the while, and pursued:

‘I saw you in the street just now. You may suppose I am not able towalk as fast as you, with my short legs and short breath, and I couldn’tovertake you; but I guessed where you came, and came after you. Ihave been here before, today, but the good woman wasn’t at home.’

‘Do you know her?’ I demanded.

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‘I know of her, and about her,’ she replied, ‘from Omer and Joram.I was there at seven o’clock this morning. Do you remember whatSteerforth said to me about this unfortunate girl, that time when Isaw you both at the inn?’

The great bonnet on Miss Mowcher’s head, and the greater bonnet on thewall, began to go backwards and forwards again when she asked this question.

I remembered very well what she referred to, having had it in mythoughts many times that day. I told her so.

‘May the Father of all Evil confound him,’ said the little woman,holding up her forefinger between me and her sparkling eyes, ‘andten times more confound that wicked servant; but I believed it wasyou who had a boyish passion for her!’

‘I?’ I repeated.‘Child, child! In the name of blind ill-fortune,’ cried Miss

Mowcher, wringing her hands impatiently, as she went to and froagain upon the fender, ‘why did you praise her so, and blush, andlook disturbed? ‘

I could not conceal from myself that I had done this, though for areason very different from her supposition.

‘What did I know?’ said Miss Mowcher, taking out her handker-chief again, and giving one little stamp on the ground whenever, atshort intervals, she applied it to her eyes with both hands at once.‘He was crossing you and wheedling you, I saw; and you were softwax in his hands, I saw. Had I left the room a minute, when his mantold me that “Young Innocence” (so he called you, and you may callhim “Old Guilt” all the days of your life) had set his heart upon her,and she was giddy and liked him, but his master was resolved that noharm should come of it—more for your sake than for hers—andthat that was their business here? How could I but believe him? I sawSteerforth soothe and please you by his praise of her! You were thefirst to mention her name. You owned to an old admiration of her.You were hot and cold, and red and white, all at once when I spoketo you of her. What could I think—what did I think—but that youwere a young libertine in everything but experience, and had falleninto hands that had experience enough, and could manage you (hav-ing the fancy) for your own good? Oh! oh! oh! They were afraid ofmy finding out the truth,’ exclaimed Miss Mowcher, getting off the

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fender, and trotting up and down the kitchen with her two shortarms distressfully lifted up, ‘because I am a sharp little thing—I needbe, to get through the world at all!—and they deceived me alto-gether, and I gave the poor unfortunate girl a letter, which I fullybelieve was the beginning of her ever speaking to Littimer, who wasleft behind on purpose!’

I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidy, looking at MissMowcher as she walked up and down the kitchen until she was outof breath: when she sat upon the fender again, and, drying her facewith her handkerchief, shook her head for a long time, without oth-erwise moving, and without breaking silence.

‘My country rounds,’ she added at length, ‘brought me to Nor-wich, Mr. Copperfield, the night before last. What I happened tofind there, about their secret way of coming and going, without you—which was strange—led to my suspecting something wrong. I gotinto the coach from London last night, as it came through Norwich,and was here this morning. Oh, oh, oh! too late!’

Poor little Mowcher turned so chilly after all her crying and fretting,that she turned round on the fender, putting her poor little wet feet inamong the ashes to warm them, and sat looking at the fire, like a largedoll. I sat in a chair on the other side of the hearth, lost in unhappyreflections, and looking at the fire too, and sometimes at her.

‘I must go,’ she said at last, rising as she spoke. ‘It’s late. You don’tmistrust me?’

Meeting her sharp glance, which was as sharp as ever when sheasked me, I could not on that short challenge answer no, quite frankly.

‘Come!’ said she, accepting the offer of my hand to help her over thefender, and looking wistfully up into my face, ‘you know you wouldn’tmistrust me, if I was a full-sized woman!’

I felt that there was much truth in this; and I felt rather ashamed ofmyself.

‘You are a young man,’ she said, nodding. ‘Take a word of advice,even from three foot nothing. Try not to associate bodily defectswith mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason.’

She had got over the fender now, and I had got over my suspicion.I told her that I believed she had given me a faithful account ofherself, and that we had both been hapless instruments in designing

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hands. She thanked me, and said I was a good fellow.‘Now, mind!’ she exclaimed, turning back on her way to the door,

and looking shrewdly at me, with her forefinger up again.—’I havesome reason to suspect, from what I have heard—my ears are alwaysopen; I can’t afford to spare what powers I have—that they are goneabroad. But if ever they return, if ever any one of them returns, whileI am alive, I am more likely than another, going about as I do, to findit out soon. Whatever I know, you shall know. If ever I can do any-thing to serve the poor betrayed girl, I will do it faithfully, pleaseHeaven! And Littimer had better have a bloodhound at his back,than little Mowcher!’

I placed implicit faith in this last statement, when I marked thelook with which it was accompanied.

‘Trust me no more, but trust me no less, than you would trust afull-sized woman,’ said the little creature, touching me appealinglyon the wrist. ‘If ever you see me again, unlike what I am now, andlike what I was when you first saw me, observe what company I amin. Call to mind that I am a very helpless and defenceless little thing.Think of me at home with my brother like myself and sister likemyself, when my day’s work is done. Perhaps you won’t, then, bevery hard upon me, or surprised if I can be distressed and serious.Good night!’

I gave Miss Mowcher my hand, with a very different opinion ofher from that which I had hitherto entertained, and opened the doorto let her out. It was not a trifling business to get the great umbrellaup, and properly balanced in her grasp; but at last I successfully ac-complished this, and saw it go bobbing down the street through therain, without the least appearance of having anybody underneath it,except when a heavier fall than usual from some over-charged water-spout sent it toppling over, on one side, and discovered Miss Mowcherstruggling violently to get it right. After making one or two sallies toher relief, which were rendered futile by the umbrella’s hopping onagain, like an immense bird, before I could reach it, I came in, wentto bed, and slept till morning.

In the morning I was joined by Mr. Peggotty and by my old nurse,and we went at an early hour to the coach office, where Mrs.Gummidge and Ham were waiting to take leave of us.

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‘Mas’r Davy,’ Ham whispered, drawing me aside, while Mr.Peggotty was stowing his bag among the luggage, ‘his life is quitebroke up. He doen’t know wheer he’s going; he doen’t know—what’safore him; he’s bound upon a voyage that’ll last, on and off, all therest of his days, take my wured for ‘t, unless he finds what he’s aseeking of. I am sure you’ll be a friend to him, Mas’r Davy?’

‘Trust me, I will indeed,’ said I, shaking hands with Ham earnestly.‘Thankee. Thankee, very kind, sir. One thing furder. I’m in good

employ, you know, Mas’r Davy, and I han’t no way now of spendingwhat I gets. Money’s of no use to me no more, except to live. If youcan lay it out for him, I shall do my work with a better art. Thoughas to that, sir,’ and he spoke very steadily and mildly, ‘you’re not tothink but I shall work at all times, like a man, and act the best thatlays in my power!’

I told him I was well convinced of it; and I hinted that I hoped thetime might even come, when he would cease to lead the lonely lifehe naturally contemplated now.

‘No, sir,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘all that’s past and over with me,sir. No one can never fill the place that’s empty. But you’ll bear inmind about the money, as theer’s at all times some laying by for him?’

Reminding him of the fact, that Mr. Peggotty derived a steady,though certainly a very moderate income from the bequest of his latebrother-in-law, I promised to do so. We then took leave of eachother. I cannot leave him even now, without remembering with apang, at once his modest fortitude and his great sorrow.

As to Mrs. Gummidge, if I were to endeavour to describe how sheran down the street by the side of the coach, seeing nothing but Mr.Peggotty on the roof, through the tears she tried to repress, and dash-ing herself against the people who were coming in the opposite di-rection, I should enter on a task of some difficulty. Therefore I hadbetter leave her sitting on a baker’s door-step, out of breath, with noshape at all remaining in her bonnet, and one of her shoes off, lyingon the pavement at a considerable distance.

When we got to our journey’s end, our first pursuit was to lookabout for a little lodging for Peggotty, where her brother could havea bed. We were so fortunate as to find one, of a very clean and cheapdescription, over a chandler’s shop, only two streets removed from

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me. When we had engaged this domicile, I bought some cold meatat an eating-house, and took my fellow-travellers home to tea; a pro-ceeding, I regret to state, which did not meet with Mrs. Crupp’sapproval, but quite the contrary. I ought to observe, however, inexplanation of that lady’s state of mind, that she was much offendedby Peggotty’s tucking up her widow’s gown before she had been tenminutes in the place, and setting to work to dust my bedroom. ThisMrs. Crupp regarded in the light of a liberty, and a liberty, she said,was a thing she never allowed.

Mr. Peggotty had made a communication to me on the way toLondon for which I was not unprepared. It was, that he purposedfirst seeing Mrs. Steerforth. As I felt bound to assist him in this, andalso to mediate between them; with the view of sparing the mother’sfeelings as much as possible, I wrote to her that night. I told her asmildly as I could what his wrong was, and what my own share in hisinjury. I said he was a man in very common life, but of a most gentleand upright character; and that I ventured to express a hope that shewould not refuse to see him in his heavy trouble. I mentioned twoo’clock in the afternoon as the hour of our coming, and I sent theletter myself by the first coach in the morning.

At the appointed time, we stood at the door—the door of thathouse where I had been, a few days since, so happy: where my youthfulconfidence and warmth of heart had been yielded up so freely: whichwas closed against me henceforth: which was now a waste, a ruin.

No Littimer appeared. The pleasanter face which had replaced his,on the occasion of my last visit, answered to our summons, andwent before us to the drawing-room. Mrs. Steerforth was sittingthere. Rosa Dartle glided, as we went in, from another part of theroom and stood behind her chair.

I saw, directly, in his mother’s face, that she knew from himselfwhat he had done. It was very pale; and bore the traces of deeperemotion than my letter alone, weakened by the doubts her fondnesswould have raised upon it, would have been likely to create. I thoughther more like him than ever I had thought her; and I felt, rather thansaw, that the resemblance was not lost on my companion.

She sat upright in her arm-chair, with a stately, immovable, pas-sionless air, that it seemed as if nothing could disturb. She looked

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very steadfastly at Mr. Peggotty when he stood before her; and helooked quite as steadfastly at her. Rosa Dartle’s keen glance compre-hended all of us. For some moments not a word was spoken.

She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a lowvoice, ‘I shouldn’t feel it nat’ral, ma’am, to sit down in this house. I’dsooner stand.’ And this was succeeded by another silence, which shebroke thus:

‘I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What doyou want of me? What do you ask me to do?’

He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily’sletter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her. ‘Please to read that,ma’am. That’s my niece’s hand!’

She read it, in the same stately and impassive way,—untouched byits contents, as far as I could see,—and returned it to him.

‘“Unless he brings me back a lady,”’ said Mr. Peggotty, tracing outthat part with his finger. ‘I come to know, ma’am, whether he willkeep his wured?’

‘No,’ she returned.‘Why not?’ said Mr. Peggotty.‘It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to

know that she is far below him.’‘Raise her up!’ said Mr. Peggotty.‘She is uneducated and ignorant.’‘Maybe she’s not; maybe she is,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I think not,

ma’am; but I’m no judge of them things. Teach her better!’‘Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am very un-

willing to do, her humble connexions would render such a thingimpossible, if nothing else did.’

‘Hark to this, ma’am,’ he returned, slowly and quietly. ‘You knowwhat it is to love your child. So do I. If she was a hundred times mychild, I couldn’t love her more. You doen’t know what it is to loseyour child. I do. All the heaps of riches in the wureld would be nowtto me (if they was mine) to buy her back! But, save her from thisdisgrace, and she shall never be disgraced by us. Not one of us thatshe’s growed up among, not one of us that’s lived along with her andhad her for their all in all, these many year, will ever look upon herpritty face again. We’ll be content to let her be; we’ll be content to

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think of her, far off, as if she was underneath another sun and sky;we’ll be content to trust her to her husband,—to her little children,p’raps,—and bide the time when all of us shall be alike in qualityafore our God!’

The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not devoid of alleffect. She still preserved her proud manner, but there was a touch ofsoftness in her voice, as she answered:

‘I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I am sorryto repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would irretrievably blightmy son’s career, and ruin his prospects. Nothing is more certain thanthat it never can take place, and never will. If there is any other com-pensation—’

‘I am looking at the likeness of the face,’ interrupted Mr. Peggotty,with a steady but a kindling eye, ‘that has looked at me, in my home,at my fireside, in my boat—wheer not?—smiling and friendly, whenit was so treacherous, that I go half wild when I think of it. If thelikeness of that face don’t turn to burning fire, at the thought ofoffering money to me for my child’s blight and ruin, it’s as bad. Idoen’t know, being a lady’s, but what it’s worse.’

She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush overspread herfeatures; and she said, in an intolerant manner, grasping the arm-chair tightly with her hands:

‘What compensation can you make to me for opening such a pitbetween me and my son? What is your love to mine? What is yourseparation to ours?’

Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head to whis-per, but she would not hear a word.

‘No, Rosa, not a word! Let the man listen to what I say! My son,who has been the object of my life, to whom its every thought hasbeen devoted, whom I have gratified from a child in every wish,from whom I have had no separate existence since his birth,—to takeup in a moment with a miserable girl, and avoid me! To repay myconfidence with systematic deception, for her sake, and quit me forher! To set this wretched fancy, against his mother’s claims upon hisduty, love, respect, gratitude—claims that every day and hour of hislife should have strengthened into ties that nothing could be proofagainst! Is this no injury?’

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Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her; again ineffectually.‘I say, Rosa, not a word! If he can stake his all upon the lightest

object, I can stake my all upon a greater purpose. Let him go wherehe will, with the means that my love has secured to him! Does hethink to reduce me by long absence? He knows his mother very littleif he does. Let him put away his whim now, and he is welcome back.Let him not put her away now, and he never shall come near me,living or dying, while I can raise my hand to make a sign against it,unless, being rid of her for ever, he comes humbly to me and begs formy forgiveness. This is my right. This is the acknowledgement I willhave. This is the separation that there is between us! And is this,’ sheadded, looking at her visitor with the proud intolerant air with whichshe had begun, ‘no injury?’

While I heard and saw the mother as she said these words, I seemedto hear and see the son, defying them. All that I had ever seen in himof an unyielding, wilful spirit, I saw in her. All the understandingthat I had now of his misdirected energy, became an understandingof her character too, and a perception that it was, in its strongestsprings, the same.

She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former restraint,that it was useless to hear more, or to say more, and that she beggedto put an end to the interview. She rose with an air of dignity to leavethe room, when Mr. Peggotty signified that it was needless.

‘Doen’t fear me being any hindrance to you, I have no more to say,ma’am,’ he remarked, as he moved towards the door. ‘I come beerwith no hope, and I take away no hope. I have done what I thowtshould be done, but I never looked fur any good to come of mystan’ning where I do. This has been too evil a house fur me and mine,fur me to be in my right senses and expect it.’

With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her elbow-chair, apicture of a noble presence and a handsome face.

We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass sides androof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves and shoots were greenthen, and the day being sunny, a pair of glass doors leading to thegarden were thrown open. Rosa Dartle, entering this way with a noise-less step, when we were close to them, addressed herself to me:

‘You do well,’ she said, ‘indeed, to bring this fellow here!’

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Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened her face, andflashed in her jet-black eyes, I could not have thought compressibleeven into that face. The scar made by the hammer was, as usual inthis excited state of her features, strongly marked. When the throb-bing I had seen before, came into it as I looked at her, she absolutelylifted up her hand, and struck it.

‘This is a fellow,’ she said, ‘to champion and bring here, is he not?You are a true man!’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘you are surely not so unjust as to con-demn me!’

‘Why do you bring division between these two mad creatures?’ shereturned. ‘Don’t you know that they are both mad with their ownself-will and pride?’

‘Is it my doing?’ I returned.‘Is it your doing!’ she retorted. ‘Why do you bring this man here?’‘He is a deeply-injured man, Miss Dartle,’ I replied. ‘You may not

know it.’‘I know that James Steerforth,’ she said, with her hand on her bosom, as

if to prevent the storm that was raging there, from being loud, ‘has a false,corrupt heart, and is a traitor. But what need I know or care about this fellow,and his common niece?’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘you deepen the injury. It is sufficientalready. I will only say, at parting, that you do him a great wrong.’

‘I do him no wrong,’ she returned. ‘They are a depraved, worthless set.I would have her whipped!’

Mr. Peggotty passed on, without a word, and went out at the door.‘Oh, shame, Miss Dartle! shame!’ I said indignantly. ‘How can

you bear to trample on his undeserved affliction!’‘I would trample on them all,’ she answered. ‘I would have his

house pulled down. I would have her branded on the face, dressed inrags, and cast out in the streets to starve. If I had the power to sit injudgement on her, I would see it done. See it done? I would do it! Idetest her. If I ever could reproach her with her infamous condition,I would go anywhere to do so. If I could hunt her to her grave, Iwould. If there was any word of comfort that would be a solace toher in her dying hour, and only I possessed it, I wouldn’t part with itfor Life itself.’

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The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sensible, but aweak impression of the passion by which she was possessed, andwhich made itself articulate in her whole figure, though her voice,instead of being raised, was lower than usual. No description I couldgive of her would do justice to my recollection of her, or to her entiredeliverance of herself to her anger. I have seen passion in many forms,but I have never seen it in such a form as that.

When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and thought-fully down the hill. He told me, as soon as I came up with him, thathaving now discharged his mind of what he had purposed doing inLondon, he meant ‘to set out on his travels’, that night. I asked himwhere he meant to go? He only answered, ‘I’m a going, sir, to seekmy niece.’

We went back to the little lodging over the chandler’s shop, andthere I found an opportunity of repeating to Peggotty what he had saidto me. She informed me, in return, that he had said the same to herthat morning. She knew no more than I did, where he was going, butshe thought he had some project shaped out in his mind.

I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, and we all threedined together off a beefsteak pie—which was one of the many goodthings for which Peggotty was famous—and which was curiouslyflavoured on this occasion, I recollect well, by a miscellaneous taste oftea, coffee, butter, bacon, cheese, new loaves, firewood, candles, andwalnut ketchup, continually ascending from the shop. After dinner wesat for an hour or so near the window, without talking much; and thenMr. Peggotty got up, and brought his oilskin bag and his stout stick, andlaid them on the table.

He accepted, from his sister’s stock of ready money, a small sumon account of his legacy; barely enough, I should have thought, tokeep him for a month. He promised to communicate with me, whenanything befell him; and he slung his bag about him, took his hatand stick, and bade us both ‘Good-bye!’

‘All good attend you, dear old woman,’ he said, embracing Peggotty,‘and you too, Mas’r Davy!’ shaking hands with me. ‘I’m a-going toseek her, fur and wide. If she should come home while I’m away—but ah, that ain’t like to be!—or if I should bring her back, my mean-ing is, that she and me shall live and die where no one can’t reproach

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her. If any hurt should come to me, remember that the last words Ileft for her was, “My unchanged love is with my darling child, and Iforgive her!”’

He said this solemnly, bare-headed; then, putting on his hat, hewent down the stairs, and away. We followed to the door. It was awarm, dusty evening, just the time when, in the great main thor-oughfare out of which that by-way turned, there was a temporarylull in the eternal tread of feet upon the pavement, and a strong redsunshine. He turned, alone, at the corner of our shady street, into aglow of light, in which we lost him.

Rarely did that hour of the evening come, rarely did I wake atnight, rarely did I look up at the moon, or stars, or watch the fallingrain, or hear the wind, but I thought of his solitary figure toiling on,poor pilgrim, and recalled the words:

‘I’m a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any hurt should come tome, remember that the last words I left for her was, “My unchangedlove is with my darling child, and I forgive her!”’

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CHAPTER 33BLISSFUL

ALL THIS TIME, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than ever. Her ideawas my refuge in disappointment and distress, and made some amendsto me, even for the loss of my friend. The more I pitied myself, orpitied others, the more I sought for consolation in the image of Dora.The greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble in the world, thebrighter and the purer shone the star of Dora high above the world.I don’t think I had any definite idea where Dora came from, or inwhat degree she was related to a higher order of beings; but I amquite sure I should have scouted the notion of her being simply hu-man, like any other young lady, with indignation and contempt.

If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely overhead and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through and through.Enough love might have been wrung out of me, metaphoricallyspeaking, to drown anybody in; and yet there would have remainedenough within me, and all over me, to pervade my entire existence.

The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, wasto take a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerableriddle of my childhood, to go ‘round and round the house, withoutever touching the house’, thinking about Dora. I believe the themeof this incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter whatit was, I, the moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round andround the house and garden for two hours, looking through crevicesin the palings, getting my chin by dint of violent exertion above therusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows,and romantically calling on the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora—I don’t exactly know what from, I suppose from fire. Perhaps frommice, to which she had a great objection.

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My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me toconfide in Peggotty, when I found her again by my side of an eveningwith the old set of industrial implements, busily making the tour ofmy wardrobe, that I imparted to her, in a sufficiently roundabout way,my great secret. Peggotty was strongly interested, but I could not gether into my view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced inmy favour, and quite unable to understand why I should have anymisgivings, or be low-spirited about it. ‘The young lady might thinkherself well off,’ she observed, ‘to have such a beau. And as to her Pa,’she said, ‘what did the gentleman expect, for gracious sake!’

I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow’s proctorial gown and stiffcravat took Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greaterreverence for the man who was gradually becoming more and moreetherealized in my eyes every day, and about whom a reflected radi-ance seemed to me to beam when he sat erect in Court among hispapers, like a little lighthouse in a sea of stationery. And by the by, itused to be uncommonly strange to me to consider, I remember, as Isat in Court too, how those dim old judges and doctors wouldn’thave cared for Dora, if they had known her; how they wouldn’t havegone out of their senses with rapture, if marriage with Dora had beenproposed to them; how Dora might have sung, and played uponthat glorified guitar, until she led me to the verge of madness, yet nothave tempted one of those slow-goers an inch out of his road!

I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the flower-beds of the heart, I took a personal offence against them all. TheBench was nothing to me but an insensible blunderer. The Bar hadno more tenderness or poetry in it, than the bar of a public-house.

Taking the management of Peggotty’s affairs into my own hands,with no little pride, I proved the will, and came to a settlement withthe Legacy Duty-office, and took her to the Bank, and soon goteverything into an orderly train. We varied the legal character of theseproceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-work, in Fleet Street(melted, I should hope, these twenty years); and by visiting MissLinwood’s Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum of needle-work, favourable to self-examination and repentance; and by inspect-ing the Tower of London; and going to the top of St. Paul’s. Allthese wonders afforded Peggotty as much pleasure as she was able to

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enjoy, under existing circumstances: except, I think, St. Paul’s, which,from her long attachment to her work-box, became a rival of thepicture on the lid, and was, in some particulars, vanquished, she con-sidered, by that work of art.

Peggotty’s business, which was what we used to call ‘common-formbusiness’ in the Commons (and very light and lucrative the common-form business was), being settled, I took her down to the office onemorning to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped out, old Tiffey said,to get a gentleman sworn for a marriage licence; but as I knew hewould be back directly, our place lying close to the Surrogate’s, and tothe Vicar-General’s office too, I told Peggotty to wait.

We were a little like undertakers, in the Commons, as regardedProbate transactions; generally making it a rule to look more or lesscut up, when we had to deal with clients in mourning. In a similarfeeling of delicacy, we were always blithe and light-hearted with thelicence clients. Therefore I hinted to Peggotty that she would findMr. Spenlow much recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis’s de-cease; and indeed he came in like a bridegroom.

But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw, incompany with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very little changed. Hishair looked as thick, and was certainly as black, as ever; and his glancewas as little to be trusted as of old.

‘Ah, Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘You know this gentleman, Ibelieve?’

I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely recog-nized him. He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to meet us twotogether; but quickly decided what to do, and came up to me.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you are doing well?’‘It can hardly be interesting to you,’ said I. ‘Yes, if you wish to

know.’We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to Peggotty.‘And you,’ said he. ‘I am sorry to observe that you have lost your

husband.’‘It’s not the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murdstone,’ re-

plied Peggotty, trembling from head to foot. ‘I am glad to hope thatthere is nobody to blame for this one,—nobody to answer for it.’

‘Ha!’ said he; ‘that’s a comfortable reflection. You have done yourduty?’

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‘I have not worn anybody’s life away,’ said Peggotty, ‘I am thank-ful to think! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not worrited and frightenedany sweet creetur to an early grave!’

He eyed her gloomily—remorsefully I thought—for an instant;and said, turning his head towards me, but looking at my feet in-stead of my face:

‘We are not likely to encounter soon again;—a source of satisfac-tion to us both, no doubt, for such meetings as this can never beagreeable. I do not expect that you, who always rebelled against myjust authority, exerted for your benefit and reformation, should oweme any good-will now. There is an antipathy between us—’

‘An old one, I believe?’ said I, interrupting him.He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his

dark eyes.‘It rankled in your baby breast,’ he said. ‘It embittered the life of

your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do better, yet; Ihope you may correct yourself.’

Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a lowvoice, in a corner of the outer office, by passing into Mr. Spenlow’sroom, and saying aloud, in his smoothest manner:

‘Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow’s profession are accustomed to familydifferences, and know how complicated and difficult they always are!’With that, he paid the money for his licence; and, receiving it neatlyfolded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a shake of the hand, and apolite wish for his happiness and the lady’s, went out of the office.

I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be si-lent under his words, if I had had less difficulty in impressing uponPeggotty (who was only angry on my account, good creature!) thatwe were not in a place for recrimination, and that I besought her tohold her peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was glad to com-pound for an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind ofour old injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlowand the clerks.

Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion be-tween Mr. Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad of, for Icould not bear to acknowledge him, even in my own breast, remem-bering what I did of the history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow

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seemed to think, if he thought anything about the matter, that myaunt was the leader of the state party in our family, and that there wasa rebel party commanded by somebody else—so I gathered at leastfrom what he said, while we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make outPeggotty’s bill of costs.

‘Miss Trotwood,’ he remarked, ‘is very firm, no doubt, and notlikely to give way to opposition. I have an admiration for her charac-ter, and I may congratulate you, Copperfield, on being on the rightside. Differences between relations are much to be deplored—butthey are extremely general—and the great thing is, to be on the rightside’: meaning, I take it, on the side of the moneyed interest.

‘Rather a good marriage this, I believe?’ said Mr. Spenlow.I explained that I knew nothing about it.‘Indeed!’ he said. ‘Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone

dropped—as a man frequently does on these occasions—and from whatMiss Murdstone let fall, I should say it was rather a good marriage.’

‘Do you mean that there is money, sir?’ I asked.‘Yes,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I understand there’s money. Beauty too,

I am told.’‘Indeed! Is his new wife young?’‘Just of age,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘So lately, that I should think they

had been waiting for that.’‘Lord deliver her!’ said Peggotty. So very emphatically and unex-

pectedly, that we were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came inwith the bill.

Old Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr. Spenlow,to look over. Mr. Spenlow, settling his chin in his cravat and rubbingit softly, went over the items with a deprecatory air—as if it were allJorkins’s doing—and handed it back to Tiffey with a bland sigh.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Quite right. I should have been ex-tremely happy, Copperfield, to have limited these charges to the ac-tual expenditure out of pocket, but it is an irksome incident in myprofessional life, that I am not at liberty to consult my own wishes.I have a partner—Mr. Jorkins.’

As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the next thingto making no charge at all, I expressed my acknowledgements onPeggotty’s behalf, and paid Tiffey in banknotes. Peggotty then re-

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tired to her lodging, and Mr. Spenlow and I went into Court, wherewe had a divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious little statute(repealed now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have seen severalmarriages annulled), of which the merits were these. The husband,whose name was Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his marriage li-cence as Thomas only; suppressing the Benjamin, in case he shouldnot find himself as comfortable as he expected. Notfinding himselfas comfortable as he expected, or being a little fatigued with his wife,poor fellow, he now came forward, by a friend, after being married ayear or two, and declared that his name was Thomas Benjamin, andtherefore he was not married at all. Which the Court confirmed, tohis great satisfaction.

I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this, andwas not even frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat whichreconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter withme. He said, Look at the world, there was good and evil in that; lookat the ecclesiastical law, there was good and evil in that. It was all partof a system. Very good. There you were!

I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora’s father that possiblywe might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in themorning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that Ithought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow repliedthat he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from mymind, as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that hewould be glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought theCommons susceptible?

Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest tous—for our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out ofCourt, and strolling past the Prerogative Office—I submitted that Ithought the Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed institution.Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied, with all due deferenceto his experience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his beingDora’s father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registryof that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effectswithin the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centu-ries, should be an accidental building, never designed for the purpose,leased by the registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not

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even ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important docu-ments it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a merce-nary speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public,and crammed the public’s wills away anyhow and anywhere, havingno other object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was alittle unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits amount-ing to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of theprofits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not beobliged to spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safeplace for the important documents which all classes of people werecompelled to hand over to them, whether they would or no. That,perhaps, it was a little unjust, that all the great offices in this great officeshould be magnificent sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerksin the cold dark room upstairs were the worst rewarded, and the leastconsidered men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps itwas a little indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it wasto find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all needful accom-modation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that post(and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a staff ina cathedral, and what not),—while the public was put to the inconve-nience of which we had a specimen every afternoon when the officewas busy, and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps,in short, this Prerogative Office of the diocese of Canterbury was alto-gether such a pestilent job, and such a pernicious absurdity, that but forits being squeezed away in a corner of St. Paul’s Churchyard, whichfew people knew, it must have been turned completely inside out, andupside down, long ago.

Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subject,and then argued this question with me as he had argued the other.He said, what was it after all? It was a question of feeling. If thepublic felt that their wills were in safe keeping, and took it for grantedthat the office was not to be made better, who was the worse for it?Nobody. Who was the better for it? All the Sinecurists. Very well.Then the good predominated. It might not be a perfect system; noth-ing was perfect; but what he objected to, was, the insertion of thewedge. Under the Prerogative Office, the country had been glorious.Insert the wedge into the Prerogative Office, and the country would

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cease to be glorious. He considered it the principle of a gentleman totake things as he found them; and he had no doubt the PrerogativeOffice would last our time. I deferred to his opinion, though I hadgreat doubts of it myself. I find he was right, however; for it has notonly lasted to the present moment, but has done so in the teeth of agreat parliamentary report made (not too willingly) eighteen yearsago, when all these objections of mine were set forth in detail, andwhen the existing stowage for wills was described as equal to theaccumulation of only two years and a half more. What they havedone with them since; whether they have lost many, or whether theysell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don’t know. I am gladmine is not there, and I hope it may not go there, yet awhile.

I have set all this down, in my present blissful chapter, because hereit comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling into thisconversation, prolonged it and our saunter to and fro, until we di-verged into general topics. And so it came about, in the end, that Mr.Spenlow told me this day week was Dora’s birthday, and he would beglad if I would come down and join a little picnic on the occasion. Iwent out of my senses immediately; became a mere driveller next day,on receipt of a little lace-edged sheet of note-paper, ‘Favoured by papa.To remind’; and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.

I think I committed every possible absurdity in the way of prepa-ration for this blessed event. I turn hot when I remember the cravat Ibought. My boots might be placed in any collection of instrumentsof torture. I provided, and sent down by the Norwood coach thenight before, a delicate little hamper, amounting in itself, I thought,almost to a declaration. There were crackers in it with the tenderestmottoes that could be got for money. At six in the morning, I was inCovent Garden Market, buying a bouquet for Dora. At ten I was onhorseback (I hired a gallant grey, for the occasion), with the bouquetin my hat, to keep it fresh, trotting down to Norwood.

I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not tosee her, and rode past the house pretending to be anxiously lookingfor it, I committed two small fooleries which other young gentle-men in my circumstances might have committed—because they cameso very natural to me. But oh! when I did find the house, and diddismount at the garden-gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots across

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the lawn to Dora sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac tree, what aspectacle she was, upon that beautiful morning, among the butter-flies, in a white chip bonnet and a dress of celestial blue! There was ayoung lady with her—comparatively stricken in years—almost twenty,I should say. Her name was Miss Mills. and Dora called her Julia.She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

Jip was there, and Jip would bark at me again. When I presentedmy bouquet, he gnashed his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If hehad the least idea how I adored his mistress, well he might!

‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!’ said Dora.I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the best

form of words for three miles) that I thought them beautiful beforeI saw them so near her. But I couldn’t manage it. She was too bewil-dering. To see her lay the flowers against her little dimpled chin, wasto lose all presence of mind and power of language in a feeble ecstasy.I wonder I didn’t say, ‘Kill me, if you have a heart, Miss Mills. Letme die here!’

Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled,and wouldn’t smell them. Then Dora laughed, and held them a littlecloser to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of geraniumwith his teeth, and worried imaginary cats in it. Then Dora beat him,and pouted, and said, ‘My poor beautiful flowers!’ as compassion-ately, I thought, as if Jip had laid hold of me. I wished he had!

‘You’ll be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Dora, ‘that that crossMiss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother’s marriage, andwill be away at least three weeks. Isn’t that delightful?’

I said I was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that was de-lightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Mills, with an air of supe-rior wisdom and benevolence, smiled upon us.

‘She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,’ said Dora. ‘You can’tbelieve how ill-tempered and shocking she is, Julia.’

‘Yes, I can, my dear!’ said Julia.‘You can, perhaps, love,’ returned Dora, with her hand on julia’s.

‘Forgive my not excepting you, my dear, at first.’I learnt, from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in the course of

a chequered existence; and that to these, perhaps, I might refer thatwise benignity of manner which I had already noticed. i found, in the

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course of the day, that this was the case: Miss Mills having been un-happy in a misplaced affection, and being understood to have retiredfrom the world on her awful stock of experience, but still to take acalm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves of youth.

But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went tohim, saying, ‘Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!’ And Miss Millssmiled thoughtfully, as who should say, ‘Ye Mayflies, enjoy yourbrief existence in the bright morning of life!’ And we all walkedfrom the lawn towards the carriage, which was getting ready.

I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had such another.There were only those three, their hamper, my hamper, and the guitar-case, in the phaeton; and, of course, the phaeton was open; and I rodebehind it, and Dora sat with her back to the horses, looking towardsme. She kept the bouquet close to her on the cushion, and wouldn’tallow Jip to sit on that side of her at all, for fear he should crush it. Sheoften carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself with its fragrance.Our eyes at those times often met; and my great astonishment is that Ididn’t go over the head of my gallant grey into the carriage.

There was dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust, I believe.I have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated with me forriding in it; but I knew of none. I was sensible of a mist of love andbeauty about Dora, but of nothing else. He stood up sometimes, andasked me what I thought of the prospect. I said it was delightful, and Idare say it was; but it was all Dora to me. The sun shone Dora, and thebirds sang Dora. The south wind blew Dora, and the wild flowers inthe hedges were all Doras, to a bud. My comfort is, Miss Mills under-stood me. Miss Mills alone could enter into my feelings thoroughly.

I don’t know how long we were going, and to this hour I know aslittle where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps someArabian-night magician, opened up the place for the day, and shut itup for ever when we came away. It was a green spot, on a hill, carpetedwith soft turf. There were shady trees, and heather, and, as far as the eyecould see, a rich landscape.

It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us; and myjealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all of my ownsex—especially one impostor, three or four years my elder, with a redwhisker, on which he established an amount of presumption not to

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be endured—were my mortal foes.We all unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting din-

ner ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which I don’tbelieve), and obtruded himself on public notice. Some of the youngladies washed the lettuces for him, and sliced them under his direc-tions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate had pitted me against thisman, and one of us must fall.

Red Whisker made his salad (I wondered how they could eat it.Nothing should have induced me to touch it!) and voted himselfinto the charge of the wine-cellar, which he constructed, bei ng aningenious beast, in the hollow trunk of a tree. By and by, I saw him,with the majority of a lobster on his plate, eating his dinner at thefeet of Dora!

I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time afterthis baleful object presented itself to my view. I was very merry, I know;but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young creature inpink, with little eyes, and flirted with her desperately. She received myattentions with favour; but whether on my account solely, or becauseshe had any designs on Red Whisker, I can’t say. Dora’s health wasdrunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt my conversation forthat purpose, and to resume it immediately afterwards. I caught Dora’seye as I bowed to her, and I thought it looked appealing. But it lookedat me over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant.

The young creature in pink had a mother in green; and I ratherthink the latter separated us from motives of policy. Howbeit, therewas a general breaking up of the party, while the remnants of thedinner were being put away; and I strolled off by myself among thetrees, in a raging and remorseful state. I was debating whether I shouldpretend that I was not well, and fly—I don’t know where—uponmy gallant grey, when Dora and Miss Mills met me.

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘you are dull.’I begged her pardon. Not at all.‘And Dora,’ said Miss Mills, ‘YOU are dull.’Oh dear no! Not in the least.‘Mr. Copperfield and Dora,’ said Miss Mills, with an almost ven-

erable air. ‘Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstandingto wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted,

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cannot be renewed. I speak,’ said Miss Mills, ‘from experience of thepast—the remote, irrevocable past. The gushing fountains whichsparkle in the sun, must not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis inthe desert of Sahara must not be plucked up idly.’

I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordi-nary extent; but I took Dora’s little hand and kissed it—and she letme! I kissed Miss Mills’s hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking,to go straight up to the seventh heaven. We did not come downagain. We stayed up there all the evening. At first we strayed to andfro among the trees: I with Dora’s shy arm drawn through mine: andHeaven knows, folly as it all was, it would have been a happy fate tohave been struck immortal with those foolish feelings, and have stayedamong the trees for ever!

But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking,and calling ‘where’s Dora?’ So we went back, and they wanted Dorato sing. Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the car-riage, but Dora told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So RedWhisker was done for in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked it,and I took the guitar out, and I sat by her, and I held her handker-chief and gloves, and I drank in every note of her dear voice, and shesang to me who loved her, and all the others might applaud as muchas they liked, but they had nothing to do with it!

I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real,and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hearMrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready.

But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss Mills sang—about theslumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were a hun-dred years old—and the evening came on; and we had tea, with thekettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.

I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the otherpeople, defeated Red Whisker and all, went their several ways, andwe went ours through the still evening and the dying light, withsweet scents rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow being a little drowsyafter the champagne—honour to the soil that grew the grape, to thegrape that made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to themerchant who adulterated it!—and being fast asleep in a corner ofthe carriage, I rode by the side and talked to Dora. She admired my

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horse and patted him—oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon ahorse!—and her shawl would not keep right, and now and then Idrew it round her with my arm; and I even fancied that Jip began tosee how it was, and to understand that he must make up his mind tobe friends with me.

That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up,recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who haddone with the world, and mustn’t on any account have the slumberingechoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘come to this side of the carriagea moment—if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to you.’

Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills, with myhand upon the carriage door!

‘Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me theday after tomorrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa wouldbe happy to see you.’ What could I do but invoke a silent blessing onMiss Mills’s head, and store Miss Mills’s address in the securest cor-ner of my memory! What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grate-ful looks and fervent words, how much I appreciated her good of-fices, and what an inestimable value I set upon her friendship!

Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, ‘Go back to Dora!’and I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to me, and we talkedall the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant grey so close to the wheel that Igrazed his near fore leg against it, and ‘took the bark off’, as his owner toldme, ‘to the tune of three pun’ sivin’—which I paid, and thought extremelycheap for so much joy. What time Miss Mills sat looking at the moon,murmuring verses—and recalling, I suppose, the ancient days when she andearth had anything in common.

Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it many hourstoo soon; but Mr. Spenlow came to himself a little short of it, andsaid, ‘You must come in, Copperfield, and rest!’ and I consenting, wehad sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light room, Dora blush-ing looked so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but sat therestaring, in a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow inspired mewith sufficient consciousness to take my leave. So we parted; I ridingall the way to London with the farewell touch of Dora’s hand stilllight on mine, recalling every incident and word ten thousand times;

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lying down in my own bed at last, as enraptured a young noodle asever was carried out of his five wits by love.

When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passionto Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the ques-tion. There was no other question that I knew of in the world, andonly Dora could give the answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury ofwretchedness, torturing myself by putting every conceivable variety ofdiscouraging construction on all that ever had taken place betweenDora and me. At last, arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense, I wentto Miss Mills’s, fraught with a declaration.

How many times I went up and down the street, and round thesquare—painfully aware of being a much better answer to the oldriddle than the original one—before I could persuade myself to goup the steps and knock, is no matter now. Even when, at last, I hadknocked, and was waiting at the door, I had some flurried thoughtof asking if that were Mr. Blackboy’s (in imitation of poor Barkis),begging pardon, and retreating. But I kept my ground.

Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobodywanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.

I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dorawere. Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I recollect, it wasa new song, called ‘Affection’s Dirge’), and Dora was painting flow-ers. What were my feelings, when I recognized my own flowers; theidentical Covent Garden Market purchase! I cannot say that theywere very like, or that they particularly resembled any flowers thathave ever come under my observation; but I knew from the paperround them which was accurately copied, what the composition was.

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa wasnot at home: though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. MissMills was conversational for a few minutes, and then, laying downher pen upon ‘Affection’s Dirge’, got up, and left the room.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.‘I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,’

said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. ‘It was a long way for him.’I began to think I would do it today.‘It was a long way for him,’ said I, ‘for he had nothing to uphold

him on the journey.’

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‘Wasn’t he fed, poor thing?’ asked Dora.I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.‘Ye-yes,’ I said, ‘he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the

unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.’Dora bent her head over her drawing and said, after a little while—

I had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and with my legs in a veryrigid state—

‘You didn’t seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at onetime of the day.’

I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.‘You didn’t care for that happiness in the least,’ said Dora, slightly

raising her eyebrows, and shaking her head, ‘when you were sittingby Miss Kitt.’

Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, withthe little eyes.

‘Though certainly I don’t know why you should,’ said Dora, orwhy you should call it a happiness at all. But of course you don’tmean what you say. And I am sure no one doubts your being atliberty to do whatever you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!’

I don’t know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I hadDora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. Itold her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told herthat I idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time.

When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquenceincreased so much the more. If she would like me to die for her, shehad but to say the word, and I was ready. Life without Dora’s lovewas not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn’t bear it, and I wouldn’t.I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. Iloved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her,every minute, to distraction. Lovers hadloved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had loved,might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The moreI raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way, got moremad every moment.

Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough,and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off mymind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.

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I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage.We must have had some, because Dora stipulated that we were neverto be married without her papa’s consent. But, in our youthful ec-stasy, I don’t think that we really looked before us or behind us; orhad any aspiration beyond the ignorant present. We were to keep oursecret from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered myhead, then, that there was anything dishonourable in that.

Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going tofind her, brought her back;—I apprehend, because there was a ten-dency in what had passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in thecaverns of Memory. But she gave us her blessing, and the assuranceof her lasting friendship, and spoke to us, generally, as became a Voicefrom the Cloister.

What an idle time it was! What an insubstantial, happy, foolishtime it was!

When I measured Dora’s finger for a ring that was to be made of Forget-me-nots, and when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure, found me out, andlaughed over his order-book, and charged me anything he liked for the prettylittle toy, with its blue stones—so associated in my remembrance with Dora’shand, that yesterday, when I saw such another, by chance, on the finger of myown daughter, there was a momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!

When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my owninterest, and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of being beloved, somuch, that if I had walked the air, I could not have been more abovethe people not so situated, who were creeping on the earth!

When we had those meetings in the garden of the square, and satwithin the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I love the Londonsparrows to this hour, for nothing else, and see the plumage of thetropics in their smoky feathers! When we had our first great quarrel(within a week of our betrothal), and when Dora sent me back thering, enclosed in a despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used theterrible expression that ‘our love had begun in folly, and ended inmadness!’ which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my hair, andcry that all was over!

When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills, whom I sawby stealth in a back kitchen where there was a mangle, and imploredMiss Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity. When Miss

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Mills undertook the office and returned with Dora, exhorting us,from the pulpit of her own bitter youth, to mutual concession, andthe avoidance of the Desert of Sahara!

When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that theback kitchen, mangle and all, changed to Love’s own temple, wherewe arranged a plan of correspondence through Miss Mills, always tocomprehend at least one letter on each side every day!

What an idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time! Ofall the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that in oneretrospect I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.

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CHAPTER 34MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME

I WROTE TO AGNES as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her along letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest Iwas, and what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes not to regardthis as a thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other, orhad the least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to jokeabout. I assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable, andexpressed my belief that nothing like it had ever been known.

Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open win-dow, and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle facecame stealing over me, it shed such a peaceful influence upon thehurry and agitation in which I had been living lately, and of whichmy very happiness partook in some degree, that it soothed me intotears. I remember that I sat resting my head upon my hand, when theletter was half done, cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of theelements of my natural home. As if, in the retirement of the house madealmost sacred to me by her presence, Dora and I must be happier than any-where. As if, in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emotions;my heart turned naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.

Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sadgrief at Yarmouth, on account of Emily’s flight; and that on me itmade a double wound, by reason of the circumstances attending it. Iknew how quick she always was to divine the truth, and that shewould never be the first to breathe his name.

To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read it, Iseemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial voice inmy ears. What can I say more!

While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice

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or thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty(who always volunteered that information to whomsoever wouldreceive it), that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-humoured acquaintance with her, and had stayed to have a little chatwith her about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid the chat was allon her own side, and of immoderate length, as she was very difficultindeed to stop, God bless her! when she had me for her theme.

This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certainafternoon of his own appointing, which was now come, but thatMrs. Crupp had resigned everything appertaining to her office (thesalary excepted) until Peggotty should cease to present herself. Mrs.Crupp, after holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in avery high-pitched voice, on the staircase—with some invisible Fa-miliar it would appear, for corporeally speaking she was quite aloneat those times—addressed a letter to me, developing her views. Be-ginning it with that statement of universal application, which fittedevery occurrence of her life, namely, that she was a mother herself,she went on to inform me that she had once seen very different days,but that at all periods of her existence she had had a constitutionalobjection to spies, intruders, and informers. She named no names,she said; let them the cap fitted, wear it; but spies, intruders, andinformers, especially in widders’ weeds (this clause was underlined),she had ever accustomed herself to look down upon. If a gentlemanwas the victim of spies, intruders, and informers (but still naming nonames), that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please himself;so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for, was, that sheshould not be ‘brought in contract’ with such persons. Therefore shebegged to be excused from any further attendance on the top set,until things were as they formerly was, and as they could be wishedto be; and further mentioned that her little book would be foundupon the breakfast-table every Saturday morning, when she requestedan immediate settlement of the same, with the benevolent view ofsaving trouble ‘and an ill-conwenience’ to all parties.

After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on thestairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring to delude Peggottyinto breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to live in this state ofsiege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out of it.

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‘My dear Copperfield,’ cried Traddles, punctually appearing at mydoor, in spite of all these obstacles, ‘how do you do?’

‘My dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to see you at last, andvery sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so muchengaged—’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Traddles, ‘of course. Yours lives in London,I think.’

‘What did you say?’‘She—excuse me—Miss D., you know,’ said Traddles, colouring

in his great delicacy, ‘lives in London, I believe?’‘Oh yes. Near London.’‘Mine, perhaps you recollect,’ said Traddles, with a serious look,

‘lives down in Devonshire—one of ten. Consequently, I am not somuch engaged as you—in that sense.’

‘I wonder you can bear,’ I returned, ‘to see her so seldom.’‘Hah!’ said Traddles, thoughtfully. ‘It does seem a wonder. I sup-

pose it is, Copperfield, because there is no help for it?’‘I suppose so,’ I replied with a smile, and not without a blush.

‘And because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.’‘Dear me!’ said Traddles, considering about it, ‘do I strike you in

that way, Copperfield? Really I didn’t know that I had. But she issuch an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it’s possible she mayhave imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you mentionit, Copperfield, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I assure you she is alwaysforgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine.’

‘Is she the eldest?’ I inquired.‘Oh dear, no,’ said Traddles. ‘The eldest is a Beauty.’He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity

of this reply; and added, with a smile upon his own ingenuous face:‘Not, of course, but that my Sophy—pretty name, Copperfield, I

always think?’‘Very pretty!’ said I.‘Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes, and

would be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody’s eyes (Ishould think). But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean she reallyis a—’ he seemed to be describing clouds about himself, with bothhands: ‘Splendid, you know,’ said Traddles, energetically.

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‘Indeed!’ said I.‘Oh, I assure you,’ said Traddles, ‘something very uncommon, indeed!

Then, you know, being formed for society and admiration, and not beingable to enjoy much of it in consequence of their limited means, she naturallygets a little irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts her in good humour!’

‘Is Sophy the youngest?’ I hazarded.‘Oh dear, no!’ said Traddles, stroking his chin. ‘The two youngest

are only nine and ten. Sophy educates ‘em.’‘The second daughter, perhaps?’ I hazarded.‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Sarah’s the second. Sarah has something the

matter with her spine, poor girl. The malady will wear out by andby, the doctors say, but in the meantime she has to lie down for atwelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. Sophy’s the fourth.’

‘Is the mother living?’ I inquired.‘Oh yes,’ said Traddles, ‘she is alive. She is a very superior woman

indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her constitution,and—in fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.’

‘Dear me!’ said I.‘Very sad, is it not?’ returned Traddles. ‘But in a merely

domestic view it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy takes herplace. She is quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is to theother nine.’

I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady;and, honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the good-nature of Traddles from being imposed upon, to the detriment oftheir joint prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was?

‘He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,’ said Traddles. ‘I am notliving with him at present.’

‘No?’‘No. You see the truth is,’ said Traddles, in a whisper, ‘he had

changed his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his temporaryembarrassments; and he don’t come out till after dark—and then inspectacles. There was an execution put into our house, for rent. Mrs.Micawber was in such a dreadful state that I really couldn’t resist givingmy name to that second bill we spoke of here. You may imagine howdelightful it was to my feelings, Copperfield, to see the matter settledwith it, and Mrs. Micawber recover her spirits.’

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‘Hum!’ said I. ‘Not that her happiness was of long duration,’ pur-sued Traddles, ‘for, unfortunately, within a week another executioncame in. It broke up the establishment. I have been living in a fur-nished apartment since then, and the Mortimers have been very pri-vate indeed. I hope you won’t think it selfish, Copperfield, if Imention that the broker carried off my little round table with themarble top, and Sophy’s flower-pot and stand?’

‘What a hard thing!’ I exclaimed indignantly.‘It was a—it was a pull,’ said Traddles, with his usual wince at that

expression. ‘I don’t mention it reproachfully, however, but with a mo-tive. The fact is, Copperfield, I was unable to repurchase them at thetime of their seizure; in the first place, because the broker, having anidea that I wanted them, ran the price up to an extravagant extent; and,in the second place, because I—hadn’t any money. Now, I have keptmy eye since, upon the broker’s shop,’ said Traddles, with a great en-joyment of his mystery, ‘which is up at the top of Tottenham CourtRoad, and, at last, today I find them put out for sale. I have onlynoticed them from over the way, because if the broker saw me, blessyou, he’d ask any price for them! What has occurred to me, havingnow the money, is, that perhaps you wouldn’t object to ask that goodnurse of yours to come with me to the shop—I can show it her fromround the corner of the next street—and make the best bargain forthem, as if they were for herself, that she can!’

The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to me, andthe sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are among the freshestthings in my remembrance.

I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist him, andthat we would all three take the field together, but on one condition.That condition was, that he should make a solemn resolution togrant no more loans of his name, or anything else, to Mr. Micawber.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, ‘I have already done so, be-cause I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate, but thatI have been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being passed tomyself, there is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge it to you,too, with the greatest readiness. That first unlucky obligation, I havepaid. I have no doubt Mr. Micawber would have paid it if he could,but he could not. One thing I ought to mention, which I like very

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much in Mr. Micawber, Copperfield. It refers to the second obliga-tion, which is not yet due. He don’t tell me that it is provided for,but he says it will be. Now, I think there is something very fair andhonest about that!’

I was unwilling to damp my good friend’s confidence, and there-fore assented. After a little further conversation, we went round tothe chandler’s shop, to enlist Peggotty; Traddles declining to pass theevening with me, both because he endured the liveliest apprehen-sions that his property would be bought by somebody else before hecould re-purchase it, and because it was the evening he always de-voted to writing to the dearest girl in the world.

I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the street inTottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bargaining for the preciousarticles; or his agitation when she came slowly towards us after vainlyoffering a price, and was hailed by the relenting broker, and went backagain. The end of the negotiation was, that she bought the property ontolerably easy terms, and Traddles was transported with pleasure.

‘I am very much obliged to you, indeed,’ said Traddles, on hearingit was to be sent to where he lived, that night. ‘If I might ask oneother favour, I hope you would not think it absurd, Copperfield?’

I said beforehand, certainly not.‘Then if you would be good enough,’ said Traddles to Peggotty,

‘to get the flower-pot now, I think I should like (it being Sophy’s,Copperfield) to carry it home myself!’

Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed her withthanks, and went his way up Tottenham Court Road, carrying theflower-pot affectionately in his arms, with one of the most delightedexpressions of countenance I ever saw.

We then turned back towards my chambers. As the shops hadcharms for Peggotty which I never knew them possess in the samedegree for anybody else, I sauntered easily along, amused by her star-ing in at the windows, and waiting for her as often as she chose. Wewere thus a good while in getting to the Adelphi.

On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sudden disap-pearance of Mrs. Crupp’s pitfalls, and also to the prints of recentfootsteps. We were both very much surprised, coming higher up, tofind my outer door standing open (which I had shut) and to hearvoices inside.

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We looked at one another, without knowing what to make of this, andwent into the sitting-room. What was my amazement to find, of all peopleupon earth, my aunt there, and Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on a quantity ofluggage, with her two birds before her, and her cat on her knee, like a femaleRobinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick leaning thoughtfully on a greatkite, such as we had often been out together to fly, with more luggage piledabout him!

‘My dear aunt!’ cried I. ‘Why, what an unexpected pleasure!’We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands;

and Mrs. Crupp, who was busy making tea, and could not be tooattentive, cordially said she had knowed well as Mr. Copperfull wouldhave his heart in his mouth, when he see his dear relations.

‘Holloa!’ said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before her awfulpresence. ‘How are you?’

‘You remember my aunt, Peggotty?’ said I.‘For the love of goodness, child,’ exclaimed my aunt, ‘don’t call

the woman by that South Sea Island name! If she married and got ridof it, which was the best thing she could do, why don’t you give herthe benefit of the change? What’s your name now,—P?’ said myaunt, as a compromise for the obnoxious appellation.

‘Barkis, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, with a curtsey.‘Well! That’s human,’ said my aunt. ‘It sounds less as if you wanted

a missionary. How d’ye do, Barkis? I hope you’re well?’Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt’s extending

her hand, Barkis came forward, and took the hand, and curtseyed heracknowledgements.

‘We are older than we were, I see,’ said my aunt. ‘We have onlymet each other once before, you know. A nice business we made of itthen! Trot, my dear, another cup.’

I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual inflexiblestate of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with her on the subjectof her sitting on a box.

‘Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy-chair, aunt,’ said I. ‘Why shouldyou be so uncomfortable?’

‘Thank you, Trot,’ replied my aunt, ‘I prefer to sit upon my prop-erty.’ Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and observed, ‘Weneedn’t trouble you to wait, ma’am.’

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‘Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma’am?’ saidMrs. Crupp.

‘No, I thank you, ma’am,’ replied my aunt.‘Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma’am?’ said Mrs.

Crupp. ‘Or would you be persuaded to try a new-laid hegg? or shouldI brile a rasher? Ain’t there nothing I could do for your dear aunt, Mr.Copperfull?’

‘Nothing, ma’am,’ returned my aunt. ‘I shall do very well, I thankyou.’

Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express sweet tem-per, and incessantly holding her head on one side, to express a generalfeebleness of constitution, and incessantly rubbing her hands, to expressa desire to be of service to all deserving objects, gradually smiled herself,one-sided herself, and rubbed herself, out of the room. ‘Dick!’ said myaunt. ‘You know what I told you about time-servers and wealth-wor-shippers?’

Mr. Dick—with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten it—returned a hasty answer in the affirmative.

‘Mrs. Crupp is one of them,’ said my aunt. ‘Barkis, I’ll troubleyou to look after the tea, and let me have another cup, for I don’tfancy that woman’s pouring-out!’

I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had somethingof importance on her mind, and that there was far more matter inthis arrival than a stranger might have supposed. I noticed how hereye lighted on me, when she thought my attention otherwise occu-pied; and what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be goingon within her, while she preserved her outward stiffness and compo-sure. I began to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her;and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told her aboutDora. Could it by any means be that, I wondered!

As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I sat downnear her, and spoke to the birds, and played with the cat, and was aseasy as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy; and Ishould still have been so, even if Mr. Dick, leaning over the great kitebehind my aunt, had not taken every secret opportunity of shaking hishead darkly at me, and pointing at her.

‘Trot,’ said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea, and

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carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lips—’you needn’tgo, Barkis!—Trot, have you got to be firm and self-reliant?’

‘I hope so, aunt.’‘What do you think?’ inquired Miss Betsey.‘I think so, aunt.’‘Then why, my love,’ said my aunt, looking earnestly at me, ‘why

do you think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine tonight?’I shook my head, unable to guess.‘Because,’ said my aunt, ‘it’s all I have. Because I’m ruined, my

dear!’If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into the river

together, I could hardly have received a greater shock.‘Dick knows it,’ said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on my shoul-

der. ‘I am ruined, my dear Trot! All I have in the world is in thisroom, except the cottage; and that I have left Janet to let. Barkis, Iwant to get a bed for this gentleman tonight. To save expense, per-haps you can make up something here for myself. Anything will do.It’s only for tonight. We’ll talk about this, more, tomorrow.’

I was roused from my amazement, and concern for her—I amsure, for her—by her falling on my neck, for a moment, and cryingthat she only grieved for me. In another moment she suppressed thisemotion; and said with an aspect more triumphant than dejected:

‘We must meet reverses boldly, and not suffer them to frighten us,my dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live misfortunedown, Trot!’

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CHAPTER 35DEPRESSION

AS SOON AS I COULD RECOVER my presence of mind, which quite desertedme in the first overpowering shock of my aunt’s intelligence, I proposedto Mr. Dick to come round to the chandler’s shop, and take possessionof the bed which Mr. Peggotty had lately vacated. The chandler’s shopbeing in Hungerford Market, and Hungerford Market being a very dif-ferent place in those days, there was a low wooden colonnade before thedoor (not very unlike that before the house where the little man andwoman used to live, in the old weather-glass), which pleased Mr. Dickmightily. The glory of lodging over this structure would have compen-sated him, I dare say, for many inconveniences; but, as there were reallyfew to bear, beyond the compound of flavours I have already mentioned,and perhaps the want of a little more elbow-room, he was perfectlycharmed with his accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assuredhim that there wasn’t room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justlyobserved to me, sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg,‘You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat.Therefore, what does that signify to me!’

I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any understanding ofthe causes of this sudden and great change in my aunt’s affairs. As Imight have expected, he had none at all. The only account he couldgive of it was, that my aunt had said to him, the day before yester-day, ‘Now, Dick, are you really and truly the philosopher I takeyou for?’ That then he had said, Yes, he hoped so. That then myaunt had said, ‘Dick, I am ruined.’ That then he had said, ‘Oh,indeed!’ That then my aunt had praised him highly, which he wasglad of. And that then they had come to me, and had had bottledporter and sandwiches on the road.

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Mr. Dick was so very complacent, sitting on the foot of the bed,nursing his leg, and telling me this, with his eyes wide open and asurprised smile, that I am sorry to say I was provoked into explainingto him that ruin meant distress, want, and starvation; but I was soonbitterly reproved for this harshness, by seeing his face turn pale, andtears course down his lengthened cheeks, while he fixed upon me alook of such unutterable woe, that it might have softened a far harderheart than mine. I took infinitely greater pains to cheer him up againthan I had taken to depress him; and I soon understood (as I ought tohave known at first) that he had been so confident, merely because ofhis faith in the wisest and most wonderful of women, and his un-bounded reliance on my intellectual resources. The latter, I believe, heconsidered a match for any kind of disaster not absolutely mortal.

‘What can we do, Trotwood?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘There’s the Memo-rial—’

‘To be sure there is,’ said I. ‘But all we can do just now, Mr. Dick,is to keep a cheerful countenance, and not let my aunt see that we arethinking about it.’

He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and implored me,if I should see him wandering an inch out of the right course, torecall him by some of those superior methods which were always atmy command. But I regret to state that the fright I had given himproved too much for his best attempts at concealment. All the eveninghis eyes wandered to my aunt’s face, with an expression of the mostdismal apprehension, as if he saw her growing thin on the spot. Hewas conscious of this, and put a constraint upon his head; but hiskeeping that immovable, and sitting rolling his eyes like a piece ofmachinery, did not mend the matter at all. I saw him look at the loafat supper (which happened to be a small one), as if nothing elsestood between us and famine; and when my aunt insisted on hismaking his customary repast, I detected him in the act of pocketingfragments of his bread and cheese; I have no doubt for the purpose ofreviving us with those savings, when we should have reached an ad-vanced stage of attenuation.

My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind,which was a lesson to all of us—to me, I am sure. She was extremelygracious to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by that

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name; and, strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared quite athome. She was to have my bed, and I was to lie in the sitting-room,to keep guard over her. She made a great point of being so near theriver, in case of a conflagration; and I suppose really did find somesatisfaction in that circumstance.

‘Trot, my dear,’ said my aunt, when she saw me making prepara-tions for compounding her usual night-draught, ‘No!’

‘Nothing, aunt?’‘Not wine, my dear. Ale.’‘But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of

wine.’‘Keep that, in case of sickness,’ said my aunt. ‘We mustn’t use it

carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.’I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being

resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing late,Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to thechandler’s shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at the cor-ner of the street, with his great kite at his back, a verymonument of human misery.

My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned,crimping the borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed theale andmade the toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was readyfor her, she was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt ofher gown turned back on her knees.

‘My dear,’ said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; ‘it’s a greatdeal better than wine. Not half so bilious.’

I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:‘Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are

well off.’‘I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,’ said I.‘Well, then, why don’t you think so?’ said my aunt.‘Because you and I are very different people,’ I returned.‘Stuff and nonsense, Trot!’ replied my aunt.MY aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very

little affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a tea-spoon, andsoaking her strips of toast in it.

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‘Trot,’ said she, ‘I don’t care for strange faces in general, but I ratherlike that Barkis of yours, do you know!’

‘It’s better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!’ said I.‘It’s a most extraordinary world,’ observed my aunt, rubbing her

nose; ‘how that woman ever got into it with that name, is unac-countable to me. It would be much more easy to be born a Jackson,or something of that sort, one would think.’

‘Perhaps she thinks so, too; it’s not her fault,’ said I.‘I suppose not,’ returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission;

‘but it’s very aggravating. However, she’s Barkis now. That’s somecomfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.’

‘There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,’ said I.‘Nothing, I believe,’ returned my aunt. ‘Here, the poor fool has

been begging and praying about handing over some of her money—because she has got too much of it. A simpleton!’

My aunt’s tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into thewarm ale.

‘She’s the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,’ said myaunt. ‘I knew, from the first moment when I saw her with that poordear blessed baby of a mother of yours, that she was the most ridicu-lous of mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!’

Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her hand toher eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed her toast and herdiscourse together.

‘Ah! Mercy upon us!’ sighed my aunt. ‘I know all about it, Trot! Barkisand myself had quite a gossip while you were out with Dick. I know allabout it. I don’t know where these wretched girls expect to go to, for mypart. I wonder they don’t knock out their brains against—against man-telpieces,’ said my aunt; an idea which was probably suggested to her byher contemplation of mine.

‘Poor Emily!’ said I.‘Oh, don’t talk to me about poor,’ returned my aunt. ‘She should

have thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me akiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early experience.’

As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me,and said:

‘Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?’

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‘Fancy, aunt!’ I exclaimed, as red as I could be. ‘I adore her withmy whole soul!’

‘Dora, indeed!’ returned my aunt. ‘And you mean to say the littlething is very fascinating, I suppose?’

‘My dear aunt,’ I replied, ‘no one can form the least idea what she is!’‘Ah! And not silly?’ said my aunt.‘Silly, aunt!’I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single

moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, ofcourse; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.

‘Not light-headed?’ said my aunt.‘Light-headed, aunt!’ I could only repeat this daring speculation

with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the preced-ing question.

‘Well, well!’ said my aunt. ‘I only ask. I don’t depreciate her. Poorlittle couple! And so you think you were formed for one another,and are to go through a party-supper-table kind of life,like two pretty pieces of confectionery, do you, Trot?’

She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air, half playfuland half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.

‘We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know,’ I replied; ‘and Idare say we say and think a good deal that is rather foolish. But welove one another truly, I am sure. If I thought Dora could ever loveanybody else, or cease to love me; or that I could ever love anybodyelse, or cease to love her; I don’t know what I should do—go out of my mind, I think!’

‘Ah, Trot!’ said my aunt, shaking her head, and smiling gravely;‘blind, blind, blind!’

‘Someone that I know, Trot,’ my aunt pursued, after a pause, ‘thoughof a very pliant disposition, has an earnestness of affection in himthat reminds me of poor Baby. Earnestness is whatthat Somebody must look for, to sustain him and improve him,Trot. Deep, downright, faithful earnestness.’

‘If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt!’ I cried.‘Oh, Trot!’ she said again; ‘blind, blind!’ and without knowing

why, I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of something overshadowme like a cloud.

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‘However,’ said my aunt, ‘I don’t want to put two young creaturesout of conceit with themselves, or to make them unhappy; so, thoughit is a girl and boy attachment, and girl and boy attachments veryoften—mind! I don’t say always!—come to nothing, still we’ll beserious about it, and hope for a prosperous issue one of these days.There’s time enough for it to come to anything!’

This was not upon the whole very comforting to a rapturous lover;but I was glad to have my aunt in my confidence, and I was mindfulof her being fatigued. So I thanked her ardently for this mark of heraffection, and for all her other kindnesses towards me; and after atender good night, she took her nightcap into my bedroom.

How miserable I was, when I lay down! How I thought and thoughtabout my being poor, in Mr. Spenlow’s eyes; about my not beingwhat I thought I was, when I proposed to Dora; about the chivalrousnecessity of telling Dora what my worldly condition was, and releas-ing her from her engagement if she thought fit; about how I shouldcontrive to live, during the long term of my articles, when I wasearning nothing; about doing something to assist my aunt, and see-ing no way of doing anything; about coming down to have no moneyin my pocket, and to wear a shabby coat, and to be able to carry Dorano little presents, and to ride no gallant greys, and to show myself inno agreeable light! Sordid and selfish as I knew it was, and as I tor-tured myself by knowing that it was, to let my mind runon my own distress so much, I was so devoted to Dora that I couldnot help it. I knew that it was base in me not to think more of myaunt, and less of myself; but, so far, selfishness was inseparable fromDora, and I could not put Dora on one side for any mortal creature.How exceedingly miserable I was, that night!

As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes, but Iseemed to dream without the previous ceremony of going to sleep.Now I was ragged, wanting to sell Dora matches, six bundles for ahalfpenny; now I was at the office in a nightgown and boots, remon-strated with by Mr. Spenlow on appearing before the clients in thatairy attire; now I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that fell fromold Tiffey’s daily biscuit, regularly eaten when St. Paul’s struck one;now I was hopelessly endeavouring to get a licence to marry Dora,having nothing but one of Uriah Heep’s gloves to offer in exchange,

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which the whole Commons rejected; and still, more or less con-scious of my own room, I was always tossing about like a distressedship in a sea of bed-clothes.

My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her walking toand fro. Two or,three times in the course of the night, attired in along flannel wrapper in which she looked seven feet high, she ap-peared, like a disturbed ghost, in my room, and came to the side ofthe sofa on which I lay. On the first occasion I started up in alarm, tolearn that she inferred from a particular light in the sky, thatWestminster Abbey was on fire; and to be consulted in reference tothe probability of its igniting Buckingham Street, in case the windchanged. Lying still, after that, I found that she sat down near me,whispering to herself ‘Poor boy!’ And then it made me twenty timesmore wretched, to know how unselfishly mindful she was of me,and how selfishly mindful I was of myself.

It was difficult to believe that a night so long to me, could be shortto anybody else. This consideration set me thinking and thinking ofan imaginary party where people were dancing the hours away, untilthat became a dream too, and I heard the music incessantly playingone tune, and saw Dora incessantly dancing one dance, without tak-ing the least notice of me. The man who had been playing the harpall night, was trying in vain to cover it with an ordinary-sized night-cap, when I awoke; or I should rather say, when I left off trying to goto sleep, and saw the sun shining in through the window at last.

There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of oneof the streets out of the Strand—it may be there still—in which Ihave had many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I could,and leaving Peggotty to look after my aunt, I tumbled head fore-most into it, and then went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a hopethat this brisk treatment might freshen my wits a little; and I think itdid them good, for I soon came to the conclusion that the first stepI ought to take was, to try if my articles could be cancelled and thepremium recovered. I got some breakfast on the Heath, and walkedback to Doctors’ Commons, along the watered roads and through apleasant smell of summer flowers, growing in gardens and carriedinto town on hucksters’ heads, intent on this first effort to meet ouraltered circumstances.

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I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an hour’sloitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who was alwaysfirst, appeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady corner,looking up at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots, and think-ing about Dora; until Mr. Spenlow came in, crisp and curly.

‘How are you, Copperfield?’ said he. ‘Fine morning!’‘Beautiful morning, sir,’ said I. ‘Could I say a word to you before

you go into Court?’‘By all means,’ said he. ‘Come into my room.’I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his gown,

and touching himself up before a little glass he had, hanging inside acloset door.

‘I am sorry to say,’ said I, ‘that I have some rather dishearteningintelligence from my aunt.’

‘No!’ said he. ‘Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?’‘It has no reference to her health, sir,’ I replied. ‘She has met with

some large losses. In fact, she has very little left, indeed.’‘You as-tound me, Copperfield!’ cried Mr. Spenlow.I shook my head. ‘Indeed, sir,’ said I, ‘her affairs are so changed,

that I wished to ask you whether it would be possible—at a sacrificeon our part of some portion of the premium, of course,’ I put inthis, on the spur of the moment, warned by the blank expression ofhis face—’to cancel my articles?’

What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It was likeasking, as a favour, to be sentenced to transportation from Dora.

‘To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?’I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not know where

my means of subsistence were to come from, unless I could earnthem for myself. I had no fear for the future, I said—and I laid greatemphasis on that, as if to imply that I should still be decidedly eli-gible for a son-in-law one of these days—but, for the present, I wasthrown upon my own resources. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear this,Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘Extremely sorry. It is not usual tocancel articles for any such reason. It is not a professional course ofproceeding. It is not a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At thesame time—’

‘You are very good, sir,’ I murmured, anticipating a concession.

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‘Not at all. Don’t mention it,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘At the sametime, I was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my handsunfettered—if I had not a partner—Mr. Jorkins—’

My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.‘Do you think, sir,’ said I, ‘if I were to mention it to Mr. Jorkins—’Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. ‘Heaven forbid,

Copperfield,’ he replied, ‘that I should do any man an injustice: still less,Mr. jorkins. But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr.jorkins is not a man to respond to a proposition of this peculiar nature.Mr. jorkins is very difficult to move from the beaten track. You knowwhat he is!’

I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had originallybeen alone in the business, and now lived by himself in a house nearMontagu Square, which was fearfully in want of painting; that hecame very late of a day, and went away very early; that he never ap-peared to be consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy littleblack-hole of his own upstairs, where no business was ever done, andwhere there was a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his desk, un-soiled by ink, and reported to be twenty years of age.

‘Would you object to my mentioning it to him, sir?’ I asked.‘By no means,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘But I have some experience of

Mr. jorkins, Copperfield. I wish it were otherwise, for I should behappy to meet your views in any respect. I cannot have the objectionto your mentioning it to Mr. jorkins, Copperfield, if you think itworth while.’

Availing myself of this permission, which was given with a warmshake of the hand, I sat thinking about Dora, and looking at thesunlight stealing from the chimney-pots down the wall of the oppo-site house, until Mr. jorkins came. I then went up to Mr. jorkins’sroom, and evidently astonished Mr. jorkins very much by makingmy appearance there.

‘Come in, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. jorkins. ‘Come in!’I went in, and sat down; and stated my case to Mr. jorkins pretty

much as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins was not by anymeans the awful creature one might have expected, but a large, mild,smooth-faced man of sixty, who took so much snuff that there wasa tradition in the Commons that he lived principally on that stimu-

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lant, having little room in his system for any other article of diet.‘You have mentioned this to Mr. Spenlow, I suppose?’ said Mr.

jorkins; when he had heard me, very restlessly, to an end.I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his

name.‘He said I should object?’ asked Mr. jorkins.I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered it prob-

able.‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can’t advance your object,’

said Mr. jorkins, nervously. ‘The fact is—but I have an appointmentat the Bank, if you’ll have the goodness to excuse me.’

With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of the room,when I made bold to say that I feared, then, there was no way ofarranging the matter?

‘No!’ said Mr. jorkins, stopping at the door to shake his head.‘Oh, no! I object, you know,’ which he said very rapidly, and wentout. ‘You must be aware, Mr. Copperfield,’ he added, looking rest-lessly in at the door again, ‘if Mr. Spenlow objects—’

‘Personally, he does not object, sir,’ said I.‘Oh! Personally!’ repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient manner. ‘I

assure you there’s an objection, Mr. Copperfield. Hopeless! Whatyou wish to be done, can’t be done. I—I really have got an appoint-ment at the Bank.’ With that he fairly ran away; and to the best ofmy knowledge, it was three days before he showed himself in theCommons again.

Being very anxious to leave no stone unturned, I waited until Mr.Spenlow came in, and then described what had passed; giving him tounderstand that I was not hopeless of his being able to soften theadamantine jorkins, if he would undertake the task.

‘Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Spenlow, with a gracious smile, ‘youhave not known my partner, Mr. jorkins, as long as I have. Nothing isfarther from my thoughts than to attribute any degree of artifice toMr. jorkins. But Mr. jorkins has a way of stating his objections whichoften deceives people. No, Copperfield!’ shaking his head. ‘Mr. jorkinsis not to be moved, believe me!’

I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and Mr. jorkins,as to which of them really was the objecting partner; but I saw with

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sufficient clearness that there was obduracy somewhere in the firm,and that the recovery of my aunt’s thousand pounds was out of thequestion. In a state of despondency, which I remember with any-thing but satisfaction, for I know it still had too much reference tomyself (though always in connexion with Dora), I left the office, andwent homeward.

I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worst, and to presentto myself the arrangements we should have to make for the future intheir sternest aspect, when a hackney-chariot coming after me, andstopping at my very feet, occasioned me to look up. A fair hand wasstretched forth to me from the window; and the face I had never seenwithout a feeling of serenity and happiness, from the moment whenit first turned back on the old oak staircase with the great broadbalustrade, and when I associated its softened beauty with the stained-glass window in the church, was smiling on me.

‘Agnes!’ I joyfully exclaimed. ‘Oh, my dear Agnes, of all people inthe world, what a pleasure to see you!’

‘Is it, indeed?’ she said, in her cordial voice.‘I want to talk to you so much!’ said I. ‘It’s such a lightening of my

heart, only to look at you! If I had had a conjuror’s cap, there is noone I should have wished for but you!’

‘What?’ returned Agnes.‘Well! perhaps Dora first,’ I admitted, with a blush.‘Certainly, Dora first, I hope,’ said Agnes, laughing.‘But you next!’ said I. ‘Where are you going?’She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day being very

fine, she was glad to come out of the chariot, which smelt (I had myhead in it all this time) like a stable put under a cucumber-frame. Idismissed the coachman, and she took my arm, and we walked ontogether. She was like Hope embodied, to me. How different I feltin one short minute, having Agnes at my side!

My aunt had written her one of the odd, abrupt notes—very littlelonger than a Bank note—to which her epistolary efforts were usuallylimited. She had stated therein that she had fallen into adversity, andwas leaving Dover for good, but had quite made up her mind to it,and was so well that nobody need be uncomfortable about her. Agneshad come to London to see my aunt, between whom and herself there

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had been a mutual liking these many years: indeed, it dated from thetime of my taking up my residence in Mr. Wickfield’s house. She wasnot alone, she said. Her papa was with her—and Uriah Heep.

‘And now they are partners,’ said I. ‘Confound him!’‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘They have some business here; and I took advan-

tage of their coming, to come too. You must not think my visit allfriendly and disinterested, Trotwood, for—I am afraid I may be cru-elly prejudiced—I do not like to let papa go away alone, with him.’

‘Does he exercise the same influence over Mr. Wickfield still,Agnes?’

Agnes shook her head. ‘There is such a change at home,’ said she, ‘thatyou would scarcely know the dear old house. They live with us now.’

‘They?’ said I.‘Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,’ said Agnes,

looking up into my face.‘I wish I had the ordering of his dreams,’ said I. ‘He wouldn’t sleep

there long.’‘I keep my own little room,’ said Agnes, ‘where I used to learn my

lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The little panelled roomthat opens from the drawing-room?’

‘Remember, Agnes? When I saw you, for the first time, comingout at the door, with your quaint little basket of keys hanging atyour side?’

‘It is just the same,’ said Agnes, smiling. ‘I am glad you think of it sopleasantly. We were very happy.’

‘We were, indeed,’ said I.‘I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always desert Mrs.

Heep, you know. And so,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘I feel obliged to bearher company, when I might prefer to be alone. But I have no otherreason to complain of her. If she tires me, sometimes, by her praises ofher son, it is only natural in a mother. He is a very good son to her.’

I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without detecting inher any consciousness of Uriah’s design. Her mild but earnest eyesmet mine with their own beautiful frankness, and there was no changein her gentle face.

‘The chief evil of their presence in the house,’ said Agnes, ‘is that Icannot be as near papa as I could wish—Uriah Heep being so much

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between us—and cannot watch over him, if that is not too bold athing to say, as closely as I would. But if any fraud or treachery ispractising against him, I hope that simple love and truth will bestrong in the end. I hope that real love and truth are stronger in theend than any evil or misfortune in the world.’

A certain bright smile, which I never saw on any other face, diedaway, even while I thought how good it was, and how familiar it hadonce been to me; and she asked me, with a quick change of expres-sion (we were drawing very near my street), if I knew how the reversein my aunt’s circumstances had been brought about. On my replyingno, she had not told me yet, Agnes became thoughtful, and I fanciedI felt her arm tremble in mine.

We found my aunt alone, in a state of some excitement. A differ-ence of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs. Crupp, on anabstract question (the propriety of chambers being inhabited by thegentler sex); and my aunt, utterly indifferent to spasms on the part ofMrs. Crupp, had cut the dispute short, by informing that lady thatshe smelt of my brandy, and that she would trouble her to walk out.Both of these expressions Mrs. Crupp considered actionable, andhad expressed her intention of bringing before a ‘British Judy’—meaning, it was supposed, the bulwark of our national liberties.

My aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peggotty was outshowing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards—and being, be-sides, greatly pleased to see Agnes—rather plumed herself on the affairthan otherwise, and received us with unimpaired good humour. WhenAgnes laid her bonnet on the table, and sat down beside her, I couldnot but think, looking on her mild eyes and her radiant forehead, hownatural it seemed to have her there; how trustfully, although she was soyoung and inexperienced, my aunt confided in her; how strong shewas, indeed, in simple love and truth.

We began to talk about my aunt’s losses, and I told them what Ihad tried to do that morning.

‘Which was injudicious, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘but well meant. Youare a generous boy—I suppose I must say, young man, now—and Iam proud of you, my dear. So far, so good. Now, Trot and Agnes, letus look the case of Betsey Trotwood in the face, and see how it stands.’

I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively at my

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aunt. My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively at Agnes.‘Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, who had always kept her money

matters to herself. ‘—I don’t mean your sister, Trot, my dear, butmyself—had a certain property. It don’t matter how much; enoughto live on. More; for she had saved a little, and added to it. Betseyfunded her property for some time, and then, by the advice of herman of business, laid it out on landed security. That did very well,and returned very good interest, till Betsey was paid off. I am talkingof Betsey as if she was a man-of-war. Well! Then, Betsey had to lookabout her, for a new investment. She thought she was wiser, now,than her man of business, who was not such a good man of business bythis time, as he used to be—I am alluding to your father, Agnes—andshe took it into her head to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,’said my aunt, ‘to a foreign market; and a very bad market it turned outto be. First, she lost in the mining way, and then she lost in the divingway—fishing up treasure, or some such Tom Tiddler nonsense,’ ex-plained my aunt, rubbing her nose; ‘and then she lost in the miningway again, and, last of all, to set the thing entirely to rights, she lost inthe banking way. I don’t know what the Bank shares were worth for alittle while,’ said my aunt; ‘cent per cent was the lowest of it, I believe;but the Bank was at the other end of the world, and tumbled intospace, for what I know; anyhow, it fell to pieces, and never will andnever can pay sixpence; and Betsey’s sixpences were all there, and there’san end of them. Least said, soonest mended!’

My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing her eyeswith a kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour was gradually returning.

‘Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?’ said Agnes.‘I hope it’s enough, child,’ said my aunt. ‘If there had been more

money to lose, it wouldn’t have been all, I dare say. Betsey wouldhave contrived to throw that after the rest, and make another chap-ter, I have little doubt. But there was no more money, and there’s nomore story.’

Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour stillcame and went, but she breathed more freely. I thought I knew why.I thought she had had some fear that her unhappy father might be insome way to blame for what had happened. My aunt took her handin hers, and laughed.

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‘Is that all?’ repeated my aunt. ‘Why, yes, that’s all, except, “Andshe lived happy ever afterwards.” Perhaps I may add that of Betseyyet, one of these days. Now, Agnes, you have a wise head. So haveyou, Trot, in some things, though I can’t compliment you always’;and here my aunt shook her own at me, with an energy peculiar toherself. ‘What’s to be done? Here’s the cottage, taking one time withanother, will produce say seventy pounds a year. I think we maysafely put it down at that. Well!—That’s all we’ve got,’ said my aunt;with whom it was an idiosyncrasy, as it is with some horses, to stopvery short when she appeared to be in a fair way of going on for along while.

‘Then,’ said my aunt, after a rest, ‘there’s Dick. He’s good for ahundred a-year, but of course that must be expended on himself. Iwould sooner send him away, though I know I am the only personwho appreciates him, than have him, and not spend his money onhimself. How can Trot and I do best, upon our means? What do yousay, Agnes?’

‘I say, aunt,’ I interposed, ‘that I must do something!’‘Go for a soldier, do you mean?’ returned my aunt, alarmed; ‘or go to

sea? I won’t hear of it. You are to be a proctor. We’re not going to have anyknockings on the head in this family, if you please, sir.’

I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing thatmode of provision into the family, when Agnes inquired if my roomswere held for any long term?

‘You come to the point, my dear,’ said my aunt. ‘They are not to begot rid of, for six months at least, unless they could be underlet, and thatI don’t believe. The last man died here. Five people out of six woulddie—of course—of that woman in nankeen with the flannel petticoat. Ihave a little ready money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can do,is, to live the term out here, and get a bedroom hard by.’

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt wouldsustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs.Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaringthat, on the first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to as-tonish Mrs. Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life.

‘I have been thinking, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, diffidently, ‘that ifyou had time—’

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‘I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disengaged afterfour or five o’clock, and I have time early in the morning. In one wayand another,’ said I, conscious of reddening a little as I thought of thehours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town, and to and froupon the Norwood Road, ‘I have abundance of time.’

‘I know you would not mind,’ said Agnes, coming to me, andspeaking in a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful considerationthat I hear it now, ‘the duties of a secretary.’

‘Mind, my dear Agnes?’‘Because,’ continued Agnes, ‘Doctor Strong has acted on his inten-

tion of retiring, and has come to live in London; and he asked papa, Iknow, if he could recommend him one. Don’t you think he wouldrather have his favourite old pupil near him, than anybody else?’

‘Dear Agnes!’ said I. ‘What should I do without you! You are alwaysmy good angel. I told you so. I never think of you in any other light.’

Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good Angel (mean-ing Dora) was enough; and went on to remind me that the Doctorhad been used to occupy himself in his study, early in the morning,and in the evening—and that probably my leisure would suit hisrequirements very well. I was scarcely more delighted with the pros-pect of earning my own bread, than with the hope of earning itunder my old master; in short, acting on the advice of Agnes, I satdown and wrote a letter to the Doctor, stating my object, and ap-pointing to call on him next day at ten in the forenoon. This I ad-dressed to Highgate—for in that place, so memorable to me, helived—and went and posted, myself, without losing a minute.

Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presenceseemed inseparable from the place. When I came back, I found myaunt’s birds hanging, just as they had hung so long in the parlour win-dow of the cottage; and my easy-chair imitating my aunt’s much easierchair in its position at the open window; and even the round green fan,which my aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to the win-dow-sill. I knew who had done all this, by its seeming to have quietlydone itself; and I should have known in a moment who had arrangedmy neglected books in the old order of my school days, even if I hadsupposed Agnes to be miles away, instead of seeing her busy with them,and smiling at the disorder into which they had fallen.

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My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it reallydid look very well with the sun upon it, though not like the seabefore the cottage), but she could not relent towards the Londonsmoke, which, she said, ‘peppered everything’. A complete revolu-tion, in which Peggotty bore a prominent part, was being effected inevery corner of my rooms, in regard of this pepper; and I was look-ing on, thinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do with a gooddeal of bustle, and how much Agnes did without any bustle at all,when a knock came at the door.

‘I think,’ said Agnes, turning pale, ‘it’s papa. He promised me thathe would come.’

I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield, butUriah Heep. I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. I wasprepared for a great change in him, after what I had heard from Agnes,but his appearance shocked me.

It was not that he looked many years older, though still dressedwith the old scrupulous cleanliness; or that there was an unwhole-some ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were full and blood-shot; or that there was a nervous trembling in his hand, the cause ofwhich I knew, and had for some years seen at work. It was not thathe had lost his good looks, or his old bearing of a gentleman—forthat he had not—but the thing that struck me most, was, that withthe evidences of his native superiority still upon him, he should sub-mit himself to that crawling impersonation of meanness, Uriah Heep.The reversal of the two natures, in their relative positions, Uriah’s ofpower and Mr. Wickfield’s of dependence, was a sight more painfulto me than I can express. If I had seen an Ape taking command of aMan, I should hardly have thought it a more degrading spectacle.

He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he camein, he stood still; and with his head bowed, as if he felt it. This wasonly for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him, ‘Papa!Here is Miss Trotwood—and Trotwood, whom you have not seenfor a long while!’ and then he approached, and constrainedly gavemy aunt his hand, and shook hands more cordially with me. In themoment’s pause I speak of, I saw Uriah’s countenance form itselfinto a most ill-favoured smile. Agnes saw it too, I think, for sheshrank from him.

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What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of physiog-nomy to have made out, without her own consent. I believe therenever was anybody with such an imperturbable countenance whenshe chose. Her face might have been a dead-wall on the occasion inquestion, for any light it threw upon her thoughts; until she brokesilence with her usual abruptness.

‘Well, Wickfield!’ said my aunt; and he looked up at her for thefirst time. ‘I have been telling your daughter how well I have beendisposing of my money for myself, because I couldn’t trust it to you,as you were growing rusty in business matters. We have been takingcounsel together, and getting on very well, all things considered. Agnesis worth the whole firm, in my opinion.’

‘If I may umbly make the remark,’ said Uriah Heep, with a writhe,‘I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and should be only tooappy if Miss Agnes was a partner.’

‘You’re a partner yourself, you know,’ returned my aunt, ‘and that’sabout enough for you, I expect. How do you find yourself, sir?’

In acknowledgement of this question, addressed to him with ex-traordinary curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably clutching the bluebag he carried, replied that he was pretty well, he thanked my aunt,and hoped she was the same.

‘And you, Master—I should say, Mister Copperfield,’ pursuedUriah. ‘I hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see you, MisterCopperfield, even under present circumstances.’ I believed that; forhe seemed to relish them very much. ‘Present circumstances is notwhat your friends would wish for you, Mister Copperfield, but itisn’t money makes the man: it’s—I am really unequal with my umblepowers to express what it is,’ said Uriah, with a fawning jerk, ‘but itisn’t money!’

Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way, but stand-ing at a good distance from me, and lifting my hand up and downlike a pump handle, that he was a little afraid of.

‘And how do you think we are looking, Master Copperfield,—Ishould say, Mister?’ fawned Uriah. ‘Don’t you find Mr. Wickfieldblooming, sir? Years don’t tell much in our firm, Master Copperfield,except in raising up the umble, namely, mother and self—and indeveloping,’ he added, as an afterthought, ‘the beautiful, namely,Miss Agnes.’

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He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such an intol-erable manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking straight at him,lost all patience.

‘Deuce take the man!’ said my aunt, sternly, ‘what’s he about? Don’tbe galvanic, sir!’

‘I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,’ returned Uriah; ‘I’m awareyou’re nervous.’

‘Go along with you, sir!’ said my aunt, anything but appeased.‘Don’t presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If you’re an eel,sir, conduct yourself like one. If you’re a man, control your limbs,sir! Good God!’ said my aunt, with great indignation, ‘I am notgoing to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!’

Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have been, bythis explosion; which derived great additional force from the indig-nant manner in which my aunt afterwards moved in her chair, andshook her head as if she were making snaps or bounces at him. Buthe said to me aside in a meek voice:

‘I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, thoughan excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think I had the plea-sure of knowing her, when I was a numble clerk, before you did,Master Copperfield), and it’s only natural, I am sure, that it shouldbe made quicker by present circumstances. The wonder is, that itisn’t much worse! I only called to say that if there was anything wecould do, in present circumstances, mother or self, or Wickfield andHeep, -we should be really glad. I may go so far?’ said Uriah, with asickly smile at his partner.

‘Uriah Heep,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous forced way, ‘isactive in the business, Trotwood. What he says, I quite concur in.You know I had an old interest in you. Apart from that, what Uriahsays I quite concur in!’

‘Oh, what a reward it is,’ said Uriah, drawing up one leg, at therisk of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt,‘to be so trusted in! But I hope I am able to do something to relievehim from the fatigues of business, Master Copperfield!’

‘Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in thesame dull voice. ‘It’s a load off my mind, Trotwood, to have such apartner.’

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The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him to me inthe light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest. Isaw the same ill-favoured smile upon his face again, and saw how hewatched me.

‘You are not going, papa?’ said Agnes, anxiously. ‘Will you notwalk back with Trotwood and me?’

He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying, if thatworthy had not anticipated him.

‘I am bespoke myself,’ said Uriah, ‘on business; otherwise I shouldhave been appy to have kept with my friends. But I leave my partnerto represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever yours! I wish you good-day,Master Copperfield, and leave my umble respects for Miss BetseyTrotwood.’

With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and leering atus like a mask.

We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury days, anhour or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon became more likehis former self; though there was a settled depression upon him,which he never shook off. For all that, he brightened; and had anevident pleasure in hearing us recall the little incidents of our old life,many of which he remembered very well. He said it was like thosetimes, to be alone with Agnes and me again; and he wished to Heaventhey had never changed. I am sure there was an influence in the placidface of Agnes, and in the very touch of her hand upon his arm, thatdid wonders for him.

My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggotty, in theinner room) would not accompany us to the place where they werestaying, but insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together.After dinner, Agnes sat beside him, as of old, and poured out his wine.He took what she gave him, and no more—like a child—and we allthree sat together at a window as the evening gathered in. When it wasalmost dark, he lay down on a sofa, Agnes pillowing his head andbending over him a little while; and when she came back to the win-dow, it was not so dark but I could see tears glittering in her eyes.

I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her love andtruth, at that time of my life; for if I should, I must be drawing nearthe end, and then I would desire to remember her best! She filled my

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heart with such good resolutions, strengthened my weakness so, byher example, so directed—I know not how, she was too modest andgentle to advise me in many words—the wandering ardour and un-settled purpose within me, that all the little good I have done, and allthe harm I have forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer to her.

And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window in thedark; listened to my praises of her; praised again; and round the littlefairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own pure light, that made ityet more precious and more innocent to me! Oh, Agnes, sister of myboyhood, if I had known then, what I knew long afterwards!—

There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turnedmy head towards the window, thinking of her calm seraphic eyes, hemade me start by muttering, as if he were an echo of the morning:‘Blind! Blind! Blind!’

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CHAPTER 36ENTHUSIASM

I BEGAN THE NEXT DAY with another dive into the Roman bath, andthen started for Highgate. I was not dispirited now. I was not afraidof the shabby coat, and had no yearnings after gallant greys. Mywhole manner of thinking of our late misfortune was changed. WhatI had to do, was, to show my aunt that her past goodness to me hadnot been thrown away on an insensible, ungrateful object. What Ihad to do, was, to turn the painful discipline of my younger days toaccount, by going to work with a resolute and steady heart. What Ihad to do, was, to take my woodman’s axe in my hand, and clear myown way through the forest of difficulty, by cutting down the treesuntil I came to Dora. And I went on at a mighty rate, as if it could bedone by walking.

When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road, pursuing such adifferent errand from that old one of pleasure, with which it was associ-ated, it seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole life. Butthat did not discourage me. With the new life, came new purpose, newintention. Great was the labour; priceless the reward. Dora was the re-ward, and Dora must be won.

I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat was nota little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at those trees in theforest of difficulty, under circumstances that should prove mystrength. I had a good mind to ask an old man, in wire spectacles,who was breaking stones upon the road, to lend me his hammer fora little while, and let me begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite.I stimulated myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath, that Ifelt as if I had been earning I don’t know how much.

In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and exam-

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ined it narrowly,—for I felt it necessary to be practical. It would dofor me and Dora admirably: with a little front garden for Jip to runabout in, and bark at the tradespeople through the railings, and acapital room upstairs for my aunt. I came out again, hotter and fasterthan ever, and dashed up to Highgate, at such a rate that I was therean hour too early; and, though I had not been, should have beenobliged to stroll about to cool myself, before I was at all presentable.

My first care, after putting myself under this necessary course ofpreparation, was to find the Doctor’s house. It was not in that part ofHighgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived, but quite on the opposite sideof the little town. When I had made this discovery, I went back, inan attraction I could not resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth’s, andlooked over the corner of the garden wall. His room was shut upclose. The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dartlewas walking, bareheaded, with a quick, impetuous step, up and downa gravel walk on one side of the lawn. She gave me the idea of somefierce thing, that was dragging the length of its chain to and fro upona beaten track, and wearing its heart out.

I came softly away from my place of observation, and avoidingthat part of the neighbourhood, and wishing I had not gone near it,strolled about until it was ten o’clock. The church with the slenderspire, that stands on the top of the hill now, was not there then to tellme the time. An old red-brick mansion, used asa school, was in its place; and a fine old house it must have been to goto school at, as I recollect it.

When I approached the Doctor’s cottage—a pretty old place, onwhich he seemed to have expended some money, if I might judgefrom the embellishments and repairs that had the look of being justcompleted—I saw him walking in the garden at the side, gaiters andall, as if he had never left off walking since the days of my pupilage.He had his old companions about him, too; for there were plenty ofhigh trees in the neighbourhood, and two or three rooks were on thegrass, looking after him, as if they had been written to about him bythe Canterbury rooks, and were observing him closely in consequence.

Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention fromthat distance, I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so asto meet him when he should turn round. When he did, and came

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towards me, he looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, evi-dently without thinking about me at all; and then his benevolentface expressed extraordinary pleasure, and he took me by both hands.

‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said the Doctor, ‘you are a man! Howdo you do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, howvery much you have improved! You are quite—yes—dear me!’

I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too.‘Oh dear, yes!’ said the Doctor; ‘Annie’s quite well, and she’ll be

delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so, lastnight, when I showed her your letter. And—yes, to be sure —yourecollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copperfield?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’‘Of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘To be sure. He’s pretty well, too.’‘Has he come home, sir?’ I inquired.‘From India?’ said the Doctor. ‘Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn’t

bear the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham—you have not forgot-ten Mrs. Markleham?’

Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!‘Mrs. Markleham,’ said the Doctor, ‘was quite vexed about him,

poor thing; so we have got him at home again; and we have boughthim a little Patent place, which agrees with him much better.’ I knewenough of Mr. Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that it wasa place where there was not much to do, and which was pretty wellpaid. The Doctor, walking up and down with his hand on my shoul-der, and his kind face turned encouragingly to mine, went on:

‘Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours.It’s very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure; but don’t youthink you could do better? You achieved distinction, you know, whenyou were with us. You are qualified for many good things. You havelaid a foundation that any edifice may be raised upon; and is it not apity that you should devote the spring-time of your life to such apoor pursuit as I can offer?’

I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a rhapsodi-cal style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly; reminding the Doc-tor that I had already a profession.

‘Well, well,’ said the Doctor, ‘that’s true. Certainly, your having aprofession, and being actually engaged in studying it, makes a differ-

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ence. But, my good young friend, what’s seventy pounds a year?’‘It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,’ said I.‘Dear me!’ replied the Doctor. ‘To think of that! Not that I mean to say it’s

rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year, because I have always contemplatedmaking any young friend I might thus employ, a present too. Undoubtedly,’said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with his hand on my shoulder.‘I have always taken an annual present into account.’

‘My dear tutor,’ said I (now, really, without any nonsense), ‘to whomI owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge—’

‘No, no,’ interposed the Doctor. ‘Pardon me!’‘If you will take such time as I have, and that is my mornings and

evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will dome such a service as I cannot express.’

‘Dear me!’ said the Doctor, innocently. ‘To think that so littleshould go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can do better, youwill? On your word, now?’ said the Doctor,—which he had alwaysmade a very grave appeal to the honour of us boys.

‘On my word, sir!’ I returned, answering in our old school manner.‘Then be it so,’ said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder, and

still keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down.‘And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,’ said I, with a little —I hope

innocent—flattery, ‘if my employment is to be on the Dictionary.’The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again,

and exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to behold, as if I hadpenetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, ‘My dearyoung friend, you have hit it. It is the Dictionary!’

How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as hishead. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told me thatsince his retirement from scholastic life, he had been advancing withit wonderfully; and that nothing could suit him better than the pro-posed arrangements for morning and evening work, as it was hiscustom to walk about in the daytime with his considering cap on.His papers were in a little confusion, in consequence of Mr. JackMaldon having lately proffered his occasional services as an amanu-ensis, and not being accustomed to that occupation; but we shouldsoon put right what was amiss, and go on swimmingly. Afterwards,when we were fairly at our work, I found Mr. Jack Maldon’s efforts

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more troublesome to me than I had expected, as he had not confinedhimself to making numerous mistakes, but had sketched so manysoldiers, and ladies’ heads, over the Doctor’s manuscript, that I oftenbecame involved in labyrinths of obscurity.

The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to worktogether on that wonderful performance, and we settled to beginnext morning at seven o’clock. We were to work two hours everymorning, and two or three hours every night, except on Saturdays,when I was to rest. On Sundays, of course, I was to rest also, andI considered these very easy terms.

Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction, theDoctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong, whomwe found in the Doctor’s new study, dusting his books,—a freedomwhich he never permitted anybody else to take with those sacredfavourites.

They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat downto table together. We had not been seated long, when I saw an approach-ing arrival in Mrs. Strong’s face, before I heard any sound of it. A gentle-man on horseback came to the gate, and leading his horse into the littlecourt, with the bridle over his arm, as if he were quite at home, tied himto a ring in the empty coach-house wall, and came into the breakfastparlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr. Jack Maldonwas not at all improved by India, I thought. I was in a state of ferociousvirtue, however, as to young men who were not cutting down trees inthe forest of difficulty; and my impression must be received with dueallowance.

‘Mr. Jack!’ said the Doctor. ‘Copperfield!’Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I

believed; and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretlytook great umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a wonder-ful sight; except when he addressed himself to his cousin Annie.

‘Have you breakfasted this morning, Mr. Jack?’ said the Doctor.‘I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,’ he replied, with his head thrown

back in an easy-chair. ‘I find it bores me.’‘Is there any news today?’ inquired the Doctor.‘Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Maldon. ‘There’s an account about

the people being hungry and discontented down in the North, but

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they are always being hungry and discontented somewhere.’The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change

the subject, ‘Then there’s no news at all; and no news, they say, isgood news.’

‘There’s a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder,’ ob-served Mr. Maldon. ‘But somebody is always being murdered, and Ididn’t read it.’

A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of man-kind was not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at thattime, I think, as I have observed it to be considered since. I haveknown it very fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed with suchsuccess, that I have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen whomight as well have been born caterpillars. Perhaps it impressed methe more then, because it was new to me, but it certainly did nottend to exalt my opinion of, or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr.Jack Maldon.

‘I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to theopera tonight,’ said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. ‘It’s the last goodnight there will be, this season; and there’s a singer there, whomshe really ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides which, sheis so charmingly ugly,’ relapsing into languor.

The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his youngwife, turned to her and said:

‘You must go, Annie. You must go.’‘I would rather not,’ she said to the Doctor. ‘I prefer to remain at

home. I would much rather remain at home.’Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked

me about Agnes, and whether she should see her, and whether shewas not likely to come that day; and was so much disturbed, that Iwondered how even the Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blindto what was so obvious.

But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that she wasyoung and ought to be amused and entertained, and must not allowherself to be made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreover, he said, hewanted to hear her sing all the new singer’s songs to him; and howcould she do that well, unless she went? So the Doctor persisted inmaking the engagement for her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come

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back to dinner. This concluded, he went to his Patent place, I sup-pose; but at all events went away on his horse, looking very idle.

I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had been. Shehad not, but had sent into London to put her cousin off; and hadgone out in the afternoon to see Agnes, and had prevailed upon theDoctor to go with her; and they had walked home by the fields, theDoctor told me, the evening being delightful. I wondered then,whether she would have gone if Agnes had not been in town, andwhether Agnes had some good influence over her too!

She did not look very happy, I thought; but it was a good face, ora very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat in the window all thetime we were at work; and made our breakfast, which we took bysnatches as we were employed. When I left, at nine o’clock, she waskneeling on the ground at the Doctor’s feet, putting on his shoes andgaiters for him. There was a softened shade upon her face, thrownfrom some green leaves overhanging the open window of the lowroom; and I thought all the way to Doctors’ Commons, of the nightwhen I had seen it looking at him as he read.

I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morning, and home atnine or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so closelyengaged, and never walked slowly on any account, and felt enthusias-tically that the more I tired myself, the more I was doing to deserveDora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character to Dora yet,because she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and I de-ferred all I had to tell her until then; merely informing her in myletters (all our communications were secretly forwarded through MissMills), that I had much to tell her. In the meantime, I put myself ona short allowance of bear’s grease, wholly abandoned scented soapand lavender water, and sold off three waistcoats at a prodigious sac-rifice, as being too luxurious for my stern career.

Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with impa-tience to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now lodging upbehind the parapet of a house in Castle Street, Holborn. Mr. Dick,who had been with me to Highgate twice already, and had resumedhis companionship with the Doctor, I took with me.

I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my aunt’sreverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict worked

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as I did, he had begun to fret and worry himself out of spirits andappetite, as having nothing useful to do. In this condition, he feltmore incapable of finishing the Memorial than ever; and the harderhe worked at it, the oftener that unlucky head of King Charles theFirst got into it. Seriously apprehending that his malady would in-crease, unless we put some innocent deception upon him and causedhim to believe that he was useful, or unless we could put him in theway of being really useful (which would be better), I made up mymind to try if Traddles could help us. Before we went, I wrote Traddlesa full statement of all that had happened, and Traddles wrote meback a capital answer, expressive of his sympathy and friendship.

We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers, refreshedby the sight of the flower-pot stand and the little round table in acorner of the small apartment. He received us cordially, and madefriends with Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an absolutecertainty of having seen him before, and we both said, ‘Very likely.’

The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this,—Ihad heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had be-gun life by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having men-tioned newspapers to me, as one of his hopes, I had put the two thingstogether, and told Traddles in my letter that I wished to know how I couldqualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now informed me, as the result ofhis inquiries, that the mere mechanical acquisition necessary, except in rarecases, for thorough excellence in it, that is to say, a perfect and entire com-mand of the mystery of short-hand writing and reading, was about equalin difficulty to the mastery of six languages; and that it might perhaps beattained, by dint of perseverance, in the course of a few years. Traddlesreasonably supposed that this would settle the business; but I, only feelingthat here indeed were a few tall trees to be hewn down, immediately re-solved to work my way on to Dora through this thicket, axe in hand.

‘I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!’ said I. ‘I’llbegin tomorrow.’

Traddles looked astonished, as he well might; but he had no notion asyet of my rapturous condition.

‘I’ll buy a book,’ said I, ‘with a good scheme of this art in it; I’llwork at it at the Commons, where I haven’t half enough to do; I’lltake down the speeches in our court for practice—Traddles, my dear

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fellow, I’ll master it!’‘Dear me,’ said Traddles, opening his eyes, ‘I had no idea you were

such a determined character, Copperfield!’I don’t know how he should have had, for it was new enough to

me. I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.‘You see,’ said Mr. Dick, wistfully, ‘if I could exert myself, Mr.

Traddles—if I could beat a drum—or blow anything!’Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such

an employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who wouldnot have smiled for the world, replied composedly:

‘But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so, Copperfield?’‘Excellent!’ said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with extraordi-

nary neatness.‘Don’t you think,’ said Traddles, ‘you could copy writings, sir, if I

got them for you?’Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. ‘Eh, Trotwood?’I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. ‘Tell him about the

Memorial,’ said Mr. Dick.I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King

Charles the First out of Mr. Dick’s manuscripts; Mr. Dick in themeanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, andsucking his thumb.

‘But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already drawnup and finished,’ said Traddles after a little consideration. ‘Mr. Dickhas nothing to do with them. Wouldn’t that make a difference,Copperfield? At all events, wouldn’t it be well to try?’

This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads togetherapart, while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chair, we con-cocted a scheme in virtue of which we got him to work next day,with triumphant success.

On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we set out thework Traddles procured for him—which was to make, I forget howmany copies of a legal document about some right of way—and onanother table we spread the last unfinished original of the great Me-morial. Our instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy ex-actly what he had before him, without the least departure from theoriginal; and that when he felt it necessary to make the slightest allu-

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sion to King Charles the First, he should fly to the Memorial. Weexhorted him to be resolute in this, and left my aunt to observe him.My aunt reported to us, afterwards, that, at first, he was like a manplaying the kettle-drums, and constantly divided his attentions be-tween the two; but that, finding this confuse and fatigue him, andhaving his copy there, plainly before his eyes, he soon sat at it in anorderly business-like manner, and postponed the Memorial to a moreconvenient time. In a word, although we took great care that he shouldhave no more to do than was good for him, and although he did notbegin with the beginning of a week, he earned by the following Saturdaynight ten shillings and nine-pence; and never, while I live, shall I forgethis going about to all the shops in the neighbourhood to change thistreasure into sixpences, or his bringing them to my aunt arranged in theform of a heart upon a waiter, with tears of joy and pride in his eyes. Hewas like one under the propitious influence of a charm, from the mo-ment of his being usefully employed; and if there were a happy man inthe world, that Saturday night, it was the grateful creature who thoughtmy aunt the most wonderful woman in existence, and me the mostwonderful young man.

‘No starving now, Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, shaking hands withme in a corner. ‘I’ll provide for her, Sir!’ and he flourished his tenfingers in the air, as if they were ten banks.

I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or I. ‘It re-ally,’ said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of his pocket, andgiving it to me, ‘put Mr. Micawber quite out of my head!’

The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunityof writing a letter) was addressed to me, ‘By the kindness of T.Traddles, Esquire, of the Inner Temple.’ It ran thus:—

‘MY DEAR COPPERFIELD,

‘You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the intimationthat something has turned up. I may have mentioned to you on aformer occasion that I was in expectation of such an event.

‘I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial towns ofour favoured island (where the society may be described as a happyadmixture of the agricultural and the clerical), in immediate connexion

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with one of the learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and our off-spring will accompany me. Our ashes, at a future period, will prob-ably be found commingled in the cemetery attached to a venerablepile, for which the spot to which I refer has acquired a reputation,shall I say from China to Peru?

‘In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we have under-gone many vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, Mrs. Micawber and myselfcannot disguise from our minds that we part, it may be for years andit may be for ever, with an individual linked by strong associations tothe altar of our domestic life. If, on the eve of such a departure, youwill accompany our mutual friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, to ourpresent abode, and there reciprocate the wishes natural to the occa-sion, you will confer a Boon

‘On ‘One ‘Who ‘Is ‘Ever yours, ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’

I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his dust andashes, and that something really had turned up at last. Learning fromTraddles that the invitation referred to the evening then wearing away,I expressed my readiness to do honour to it; and we went off togetherto the lodging which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr. Mortimer, andwhich was situated near the top of the Gray’s Inn Road.

The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we found thetwins, now some eight or nine years old, reposing in a turn-up bed-stead in the family sitting-room, where Mr. Micawber had prepared,in a wash-hand-stand jug, what he called ‘a Brew’ of the agreeablebeverage for which he was famous. I had the pleasure, on this occa-sion, of renewing the acquaintance of Master Micawber, whom Ifound a promising boy of about twelve or thirteen, very subject tothat restlessness of limb which is not an unfrequent phenomenon inyouths of his age. I also became once more known to his sister, MissMicawber, in whom, as Mr. Micawber told us, ‘her mother renewed

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her youth, like the Phoenix’.‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘yourself and Mr.

Traddles find us on the brink of migration, and will excuse any littlediscomforts incidental to that position.’

Glancing round as I made a suitable reply, I observed that the fam-ily effects were already packed, and that the amount of luggage wasby no means overwhelming. I congratulated Mrs. Micawber on theapproaching change.

‘My dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘of your friendlyinterest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My family may considerit banishment, if they please; but I am a wife and mother, and I neverwill desert Mr. Micawber.’

Traddles, appealed to by Mrs. Micawber’s eye, feelingly acquiesced.‘That,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that, at least, is my view, my dear Mr.

Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the obligation which I took uponmyself when I repeated the irrevocable words, “I, Emma, take thee,Wilkins.” I read the service over with a flat-candle on the previousnight, and the conclusion I derived from it was, that I never coulddesert Mr. Micawber. And,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘though it is pos-sible I may be mistaken in my view of the ceremony, I never will!’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, a little impatiently, ‘I am not con-scious that you are expected to do anything of the sort.’

‘I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ pursued Mrs. Micawber,‘that I am now about to cast my lot among strangers; and I am alsoaware that the various members of my family, to whom Mr. Micawberhas written in the most gentlemanly terms, announcing that fact, havenot taken the least notice of Mr. Micawber’s communication. IndeedI may be superstitious,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘but it appears to me thatMr. Micawber is destined never to receive any answers whatever to thegreat majority of the communications he writes. I may augur, fromthe silence of my family, that they object to the resolution I have taken;but I should not allow myself to be swerved from the path of duty,Mr. Copperfield, even by my papa and mama, were they still living.’

I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right direction.‘It may be a sacrifice,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘to immure one’s-self in aCathedral town; but surely, Mr. Copperfield, if it is a sacrifice in me,it is much more a sacrifice in a man of Mr. Micawber’s abilities.’

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‘Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?’ said I.Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the wash-hand-

stand jug, replied:‘To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have entered into

arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged and contracted toour friend Heep, to assist and serve him in the capacity of—and tobe—his confidential clerk.’

I stared at Mr. Micawber, who greatly enjoyed my surprise.‘I am bound to state to you,’ he said, with an official air, ‘that the

business habits, and the prudent suggestions, of Mrs. Micawber, havein a great measure conduced to this result. The gauntlet, to whichMrs. Micawber referred upon a former occasion, being thrown downin the form of an advertisement, was taken up by my friend Heep,and led to a mutual recognition. Of my friend Heep,’ said Mr.Micawber, ‘who is a man of remarkable shrewdness, I desire to speakwith all possible respect. My friend Heep has not fixed the positiveremuneration at too high a figure, but he has made a great deal, inthe way of extrication from the pressure of pecuniary difficulties,contingent on the value of my services; and on the value of thoseservices I pin my faith. Such address and intelligence as I chance topossess,’ said Mr. Micawber, boastfully disparaging himself, with theold genteel air, ‘will be devoted to my friend Heep’s service. I havealready some acquaintance with the law—as a defendant on civil pro-cess—and I shall immediately apply myself to the Commentaries ofone of the most eminent and remarkable of our English jurists. Ibelieve it is unnecessary to add that I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.’

These observations, and indeed the greater part of the observationsmade that evening, were interrupted by Mrs. Micawber’s discoveringthat Master Micawber was sitting on his boots, or holding his head onwith both arms as if he felt it loose, or accidentally kicking Traddlesunder the table, or shuffling his feet over one another, or producingthem at distances from himself apparently outrageous to nature, orlying sideways with his hair among the wine-glasses, or developing hisrestlessness of limb in some other form incompatible with the generalinterests of society; and by Master Micawber’s receiving those discov-eries in a resentful spirit. I sat all the while, amazed by Mr. Micawber’sdisclosure, and wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Micawber re-

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sumed the thread of the discourse, and claimed my attention.‘What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful of, is,’

said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that he does not, my dear Mr. Copperfield, inapplying himself to this subordinate branch of the law, place it outof his power to rise, ultimately, to the top of the tree. I am convincedthat Mr. Micawber, giving his mind to a profession so adapted to hisfertile resources, and his flow of language, must distinguish himself.Now, for example, Mr. Traddles,’ said Mrs. Micawber, assuming aprofound air, ‘a judge, or even say a Chancellor. Does an individualplace himself beyond the pale of those preferments by entering onsuch an office as Mr. Micawber has accepted?’

‘My dear,’ observed Mr. Micawber—but glancing inquisitively atTraddles, too; ‘we have time enough before us, for the considerationof those questions.’

‘Micawber,’ she returned, ‘no! Your mistake in life is, that you donot look forward far enough. You are bound, in justice to your fam-ily, if not to yourself, to take in at a comprehensive glance theextremest point in the horizon to which your abilities may lead you.’

Mr. Micawber coughed, and drank his punch with an air of ex-ceeding satisfaction—still glancing at Traddles, as if he desired tohave his opinion.

‘Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,’ said Traddles,mildly breaking the truth to her. ‘I mean the real prosaic fact, youknow—’

‘Just so,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to beas prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much importance.’

‘—Is,’ said Traddles, ‘that this branch of the law, even if Mr.Micawber were a regular solicitor—’

‘Exactly so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. (‘Wilkins, you are squint-ing, and will not be able to get your eyes back.’)

‘—Has nothing,’ pursued Traddles, ‘to do with that. Only a bar-rister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could notbe a barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a student,for five years.’

‘Do I follow you?’ said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable airof business. ‘Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at theexpiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a Judge

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or Chancellor?’‘He would be eligible,’ returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis

on that word.‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘That is quite sufficient. If such

is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by entering onthese duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,’ said Mrs. Micawber,‘as a female, necessarily; but I have always been of opinion that Mr.Micawber possesses what I have heard my papa call, when I lived athome, the judicial mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now enteringon a field where that mind will develop itself, and take a command-ing station.’

I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind’seye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his baldhead, and said with ostentatious resignation:

‘My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am reservedto wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,’ in allusion to his baldness,‘for that distinction. I do not,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘regret my hair, and Imay have been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is myintention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for the Church; I willnot deny that I should be happy, on his account, to attain to eminence.’

‘For the Church?’ said I, still pondering, between whiles, on UriahHeep.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘He has a remarkable head-voice, andwill commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and ourlocal connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of anyvacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.’

On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certainexpression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where itpresently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative between thatand bed) ‘The Wood-Pecker tapping’. After many compliments on thisperformance, we fell into some general conversation; and as I was toofull of my desperate intentions to keep my altered circumstances to myself,I made them known to Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. I cannot express howextremely delighted they both were, by the idea of my aunt’s being indifficulties; and how comfortable and friendly it made them.

When we were nearly come to the last round of the punch, I ad-dressed myself to Traddles, and reminded him that we must not

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separate, without wishing our friends health, happiness, and successin their new career. I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us bumpers, andproposed the toast in due form: shaking hands with him across thetable, and kissing Mrs. Micawber, to commemorate that eventfuloccasion. Traddles imitated me in the first particular, but did notconsider himself a sufficiently old friend to venture on the second.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, rising with one of histhumbs in each of his waistcoat pockets, ‘the companion of my youth:if I may be allowed the expression—and my esteemed friend Traddles:if I may be permitted to call him so—will allow me, on the part ofMrs. Micawber, myself, and our offspring, to thank them in thewarmest and most uncompromising terms for their good wishes. Itmay be expected that on the eve of a migration which willconsign us to a perfectly new existence,’ Mr. Micawber spoke as ifthey were going five hundred thousand miles, ‘I should offer a fewvaledictory remarks to two such friends as I see before me. But allthat I have to say in this way, I have said. Whatever station in societyI may attain, through the medium of the learned profession of whichI am about to become an unworthy member, I shall endeavour notto disgrace, and Mrs. Micawber will be safe to adorn. Under thetemporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities, contracted with a view totheir immediate liquidation, but remaining unliquidated through acombination of circumstances, I have been under the necessity ofassuming a garb from which my natural instincts recoil—I allude tospectacles—and possessing myself of a cognomen, to which I canestablish no legitimate pretensions. All I have to say on that score is,that the cloud has passed from the dreary scene, and the God of Dayis once more high upon the mountain tops. On Monday next, onthe arrival of the four o’clock afternoon coach at Canterbury, myfoot will be on my native heath—my name, Micawber!’

Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these remarks, anddrank two glasses of punch in grave succession. He then said withmuch solemnity:

‘One thing more I have to do, before this separation is complete,and that is to perform an act of justice. My friend Mr. ThomasTraddles has, on two several occasions, “put his name”, if I may use acommon expression, to bills of exchange for my accommodation.

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On the first occasion Mr. Thomas Traddles was left—let me say, inshort, in the lurch. The fulfilment of the second has not yet arrived.The amount of the first obligation,’ here Mr. Micawber carefullyreferred to papers, ‘was, I believe, twenty-three, four, nine and a half,of the second, according to my entry of that transaction, eighteen, six,two. These sums, united, make a total, if my calculation is correct,amounting to forty-one, ten, eleven and a half. My friend Copperfieldwill perhaps do me the favour to check that total?’

I did so and found it correct.‘To leave this metropolis,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘and my friend Mr.

Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of the pecuniary partof this obligation, would weigh upon my mind to an insupportableextent. I have, therefore, prepared for my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles,and I now hold in my hand, a document, which accomplishes thedesired object. I beg to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles myI.O.U. for forty-one, ten, eleven and a half, and I am happy to re-cover my moral dignity, and to know that I can once more walkerect before my fellow man!’

With this introduction (which greatly affected him), Mr. Micawberplaced his I.O.U. in the hands of Traddles, and said he wished himwell in every relation of life. I am persuaded, not only that this wasquite the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the money, but thatTraddles himself hardly knew the difference until he had had timeto think about it. Mr. Micawber walked so erect before his fellowman, on the strength of this virtuous action, that his chest lookedhalf as broad again when he lighted us downstairs. We parted withgreat heartiness on both sides; and when I had seen Traddles to hisown door, and was going home alone, I thought, among the otherodd and contradictory things I mused upon, that, slippery as Mr.Micawber was, I was probably indebted to some compassionate rec-ollection he retained of me as his boy-lodger, for never having beenasked by him for money. I certainly should not have had the moralcourage to refuse it; and I have no doubt he knew that (to his creditbe it written), quite as well as I did.

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CHAPTER 37A LITTLE COLD WATER

MY NEW LIFE HAD LASTED for more than a week, and I was strongerthan ever in those tremendous practical resolutions that I felt thecrisis required. I continued to walk extremely fast, and to have ageneral idea that I was getting on. I made it a rule to take as much outof myself as I possibly could, in my way of doing everything towhich I applied my energies. I made a perfect victim of myself. Ieven entertained some idea of putting myself on a vegetable diet,vaguely conceiving that, in becoming a graminivorous animal, Ishould sacrifice to Dora.

As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate firm-ness, otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it forth. But an-other Saturday came, and on that Saturday evening she was to be atMiss Mills’s; and when Mr. Mills had gone to his whist-club (tele-graphed to me in the street, by a bird-cage in the drawing-roommiddle window), I was to go there to tea.

By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham Street,where Mr. Dick continued his copying in a state of absolute felicity.My aunt had obtained a signal victory over Mrs. Crupp, by payingher off, throwing the first pitcher she planted on the stairs out ofwindow, and protecting in person, up and down the staircase, a su-pernumerary whom she engaged from the outer world. These vigor-ous measures struck such terror to the breast of Mrs. Crupp, that shesubsided into her own kitchen, under the impression that my auntwas mad. My aunt being supremely indifferent to Mrs. Crupp’s opin-ion and everybody else’s, and rather favouring than discouraging theidea, Mrs. Crupp, of late the bold, became within a few days sofaint-hearted, that rather than encounter my aunt upon the staircase,

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she would endeavour to hide her portly form behind doors—leavingvisible, however, a wide margin of flannel petticoat—or would shrinkinto dark corners. This gave my aunt such unspeakable satisfaction,that I believe she took a delight inprowling up and down, with her bonnet insanely perched on the topof her head, at times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the way.

My aunt, being uncommonly neat and ingenious, made so manylittle improvements in our domestic arrangements, that I seemed tobe richer instead of poorer. Among the rest, she converted the pantryinto a dressing-room for me; and purchased and embellished a bed-stead for my occupation, which looked as like a bookcase in thedaytime as a bedstead could. I was the object of her constant solici-tude; and my poor mother herself could not have loved me better, orstudied more how to make me happy.

Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in being allowedto participate in these labours; and, although she still retained some-thing of her old sentiment of awe in reference to my aunt, had re-ceived so many marks of encouragement and confidence, that theywere the best friends possible. But the time had now come (I amspeaking of the Saturday when I was to take tea at Miss Mills’s) whenit was necessary for her to return home, and enter on thedischarge of the duties she had undertaken in behalf of Ham. ‘Sogood-bye, Barkis,’ said my aunt, ‘and take care of yourself! I am sureI never thought I could be sorry to lose you!’

I took Peggotty to the coach office and saw her off. She cried at part-ing, and confided her brother to my friendship as Ham had done. Wehad heard nothing of him since he went away, that sunny afternoon.

‘And now, my own dear Davy,’ said Peggotty, ‘if, while you’re aprentice, you should want any money to spend; or if, when you’reout of your time, my dear, you should want any to set you up (andyou must do one or other, or both, my darling); who has such agood right to ask leave to lend it you, as my sweet girl’s own oldstupid me!’

I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in reply, butthat if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would borrow it of her.Next to accepting a large sum on the spot, I believe this gave Peggottymore comfort than anything I could have done.

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‘And, my dear!’ whispered Peggotty, ‘tell the pretty little angel thatI should so have liked to see her, only for a minute! And tell her thatbefore she marries my boy, I’ll come and make your house so beau-tiful for you, if you’ll let me!’

I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave Peggottysuch delight that she went away in good spirits.

I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons allday, by a variety of devices, and at the appointed time in the eveningrepaired to Mr. Mills’s street. Mr. Mills, who was a terrible fellow tofall asleep after dinner, had not yet gone out, and there was no bird-cage in the middle window.

He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the Club wouldfine him for being late. At last he came out; and then I saw my ownDora hang up the bird-cage, and peep into the balcony to look forme, and run in again when she saw I was there, while Jip remainedbehind, to bark injuriously at an immense butcher’s dog in the street,who could have taken him like a pill.

Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip camescrambling out, tumbling over his own growls, under the impres-sion that I was a Bandit; and we all three went in, as happy andloving as could be. I soon carried desolation into the bosom of ourjoys—not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of the sub-ject—by asking Dora, without the smallest preparation, if she couldlove a beggar?

My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the wordwas a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a woodenleg, or a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something ofthat kind; and she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.

‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?’ pouted Dora. ‘Love abeggar!’

‘Dora, my own dearest!’ said I. ‘I am a beggar!’‘How can you be such a silly thing,’ replied Dora, slapping my

hand, ‘as to sit there, telling such stories? I’ll make Jip bite you!’Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me,

but it was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:‘Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!’‘I declare I’ll make Jip bite you!’ said Dora, shaking her curls, ‘if

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you are so ridiculous.’But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls, and

laid her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first lookedscared and anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell uponmy knees before the sofa, caressing her, and imploring her not torend my heart; but, for some time, poor little Dora did nothing butexclaim Oh dear! Oh dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And wherewas Julia Mills! And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!until I was almost beside myself.

At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dorato look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I graduallysoothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lyingagainst mine. Then I told her, with my arms clasped round her, how Iloved her, so dearly, and so dearly; how I felt it right to offer to releaseher from her engagement, because now I was poor; how I never couldbear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of poverty, if shehad none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired by her; how Iwas already working with a courage such as none but lovers knew; howI had begun to be practical, and look into the future; how a crust wellearned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much more to thesame purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passionate eloquencequite surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about it, dayand night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.

‘Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?’ said I, rapturously, for I knewby her clinging to me that it was.

‘Oh, yes!’ cried Dora. ‘Oh, yes, it’s all yours. Oh, don’t be dreadful!’I dreadful! To Dora!‘Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!’ said Dora, nest-

ling closer to me. ‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’‘My dearest love,’ said I, ‘the crust well-earned—’‘Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!’ said Dora.

‘And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or he’ll die.’I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained

to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomedregularity. I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent bymy labour—sketching in the little house I had seen at Highgate, andmy aunt in her room upstairs.

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‘I am not dreadful now, Dora?’ said I, tenderly.‘Oh, no, no!’ cried Dora. ‘But I hope your aunt will keep in her

own room a good deal. And I hope she’s not a scolding old thing!’If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure I did.

But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my new-born ardour,to find that ardour so difficult of communication to her. I made anothertrial. When she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip’s ears, as he layupon her lap, I became grave, and said:

‘My own! May I mention something?’‘Oh, please don’t be practical!’ said Dora, coaxingly. ‘Because it

frightens me so!’‘Sweetheart!’ I returned; ‘there is nothing to alarm you in all this. I

want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make it nerveyou, and inspire you, Dora!’

‘Oh, but that’s so shocking!’ cried Dora.‘My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable us

to bear much worse things.’‘But I haven’t got any strength at all,’ said Dora, shaking her curls.

‘Have I, Jip? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable!’It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me

for that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kiss-ing form, as she directed the operation, which she insisted should beperformed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I did as she bademe—rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience —and shecharmed me out of my graver character for I don’t know how long.

‘But, Dora, my beloved!’ said I, at last resuming it; ‘I was going tomention something.’

The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love withher, to see her fold her little hands and hold them up, begging andpraying me not to be dreadful any more.

‘Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!’ I assured her. ‘But,Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think,—not despondingly,you know; far from that!—but if you will sometimes think—just toencourage yourself—that you are engaged to a poor man—’

‘Don’t, don’t! Pray don’t!’ cried Dora. ‘It’s so very dreadful!’‘My soul, not at all!’ said I, cheerfully. ‘If you will sometimes think

of that, and look about now and then at your papa’s housekeeping,

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and endeavour to acquire a little habit—of accounts, for instance—’Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was

half a sob and half a scream.‘—It would be so useful to us afterwards,’ I went on. ‘And if you

would promise me to read a little—a little Cookery Book that Iwould send you, it would be so excellent for both of us. For our pathin life, my Dora,’ said I, warming with the subject, ‘is stony andrugged now, and it rests with us to smooth it. We must fight ourway onward. We must be brave. There are obstacles to be met, andwe must meet, and crush them!’

I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and a mostenthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unnecessary to proceed. Ihad said enough. I had done it again. Oh, she was so frightened! Oh,where was Julia Mills! Oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away,please! So that, in short, I was quite distracted, and raved about thedrawing-room.

I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water on her face.I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair. I denounced myselfas a remorseless brute and a ruthless beast. I implored her forgiveness.I besought her to look up. I ravaged Miss Mills’s work-box for asmelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle-case instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora. I shook my fistsat Jip, who was as frantic as myself. I did every wild extravagance thatcould be done, and was a long way beyond the end of my wits whenMiss Mills came into the room.

‘Who has done this?’ exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring her friend.I replied, ‘I, Miss Mills! I have done it! Behold the destroyer!’ —or

words to that effect—and hid my face from the light, in the sofacushion.

At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we wereverging on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found out how mat-ters stood, for my dear affectionate little Dora, embracing her, beganexclaiming that I was ‘a poor labourer’; and then cried for me, andembraced me, and asked me would I let her give me all her money tokeep, and then fell on Miss Mills’s neck, sobbing as if her tenderheart were broken.

Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. She ascer-

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tained from me in a few words what it was all about, comfortedDora, and gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer—frommy manner of stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was anavigator, and went balancing myself up and down a plank all daywith a wheelbarrow—and so brought us together in peace. When wewere quite composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put somerose-water to her eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing inter-val, I told Miss Mills that she was evermore my friend, and that myheart must cease to vibrate ere I could forget her sympathy.

I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured, so veryunsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills replied, on generalprinciples, that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace ofcold splendour, and that where love was, all was.

I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who should knowit better than I, who loved Dora with a love that never mortal hadexperienced yet? But on Miss Mills observing, with despondency,that it were well indeed for some hearts if this were so, I explainedthat I begged leave to restrict the observation to mortals of the mas-culine gender.

I then put it to Miss Mills, to say whether she considered thatthere was or was not any practical merit in the suggestion I had beenanxious to make, concerning the accounts, the housekeeping, andthe Cookery Book?

Miss Mills, after some consideration, thus replied:‘Mr. Copperfield, I will be plain with you. Mental suffering and

trial supply, in some natures, the place of years, and I will be as plainwith you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No. The suggestion is not ap-propriate to our Dora. Our dearest Dora is a favourite child of na-ture. She is a thing of light, and airiness, and joy. I am free to confessthat if it could be done, it might be well, but—’ And Miss Millsshook her head.

I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of MissMills to ask her, whether, for Dora’s sake, if she had any opportunityof luring her attention to such preparations for anearnest life, she would avail herself of it? Miss Mills replied in theaffirmative so readily, that I further asked her if she would take chargeof the Cookery Book; and, if she ever could insinuate it upon Dora’s

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acceptance, without frightening her, undertake to do me that crown-ing service. Miss Mills accepted this trust, too; but was not sanguine.

And Dora returned, looking such a lovely little creature, that Ireally doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything soordinary. And she loved me so much, and was so captivating (par-ticularly when she made Jip stand on his hind legs for toast, andwhen she pretended to hold that nose of his against the hot teapotfor punishment because he wouldn’t), that I felt like a sort of Mon-ster who had got into a Fairy’s bower, when I thought of havingfrightened her, and made her cry.

After tea we had the guitar; and Dora sang those same dear old Frenchsongs about the impossibility of ever on any account leaving off danc-ing, La ra la, La ra la, until I felt a much greater Monster than before.

We had only one check to our pleasure, and that happened a littlewhile before I took my leave, when, Miss Mills chancing to makesome allusion to tomorrow morning, I unluckily let out that, beingobliged to exert myself now, I got up at five o’clock. Whether Dorahad any idea that I was a Private Watchman, I am unable to say; butit made a great impression on her, and she neither played nor sangany more.

It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she said to me,in her pretty coaxing way—as if I were a doll, I used to think:

‘Now don’t get up at five o’clock, you naughty boy. It’s so nonsen-sical!’

‘My love,’ said I, ‘I have work to do.’‘But don’t do it!’ returned Dora. ‘Why should you?’It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face, other-

wise than lightly and playfully, that we must work to live.‘Oh! How ridiculous!’ cried Dora.‘How shall we live without, Dora?’ said I.‘How? Any how!’ said Dora.She seemed to think she had quite settled the question, and gave

me such a triumphant little kiss, direct from her innocent heart, thatI would hardly have put her out of conceit with her answer, for afortune.

Well! I loved her, and I went on loving her, most absorbingly,entirely, and completely. But going on, too, working pretty hard,

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and busily keeping red-hot all the irons I now had in the fire, I wouldsit sometimes of a night, opposite my aunt, thinking how I hadfrightened Dora that time, and how I could best make my way witha guitar-case through the forest of difficulty, until I used to fancythat my head was turning quite grey.

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CHAPTER 38A DISSOLUTION

OF PARTNERSHIP

I DID NOT ALLOW MY RESOLUTION, with respect to the ParliamentaryDebates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat immediately,and one of the irons I kept hot, and hammered at, with a perseveranceI may honestly admire. I bought an approved scheme of the noble artand mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence); andplunged into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, tothe confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots,which in such a position meant such a thing, and in such anotherposition something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries thatwere played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resultedfrom marks like flies’ legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrongplace; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before mein my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through these diffi-culties, and had mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Templein itself, there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbi-trary characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; whoinsisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb, meantexpectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood for disadvanta-geous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found that theyhad driven everything else out of it; then, beginning again, I forgotthem; while I was picking them up, I dropped the other fragments ofthe system; in short, it was almost heart-breaking.

It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who wasthe stay and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in thescheme was a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty, and I went on

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cutting them down, one after another, with such vigour, that in threeor four months I was in a condition to make an experiment on oneof our crack speakers in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how thecrack speaker walked off from me before I began, and left my imbe-cile pencil staggering about the paper as if it were in a fit!

This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, andshould never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who sug-gested that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace, and withoccasional stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful for thisfriendly aid, I accepted the proposal; and night after night, almostevery night, for a long time, we had a sort of Private Parliament inBuckingham Street, after I came home from the Doctor’s.

I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt andMr. Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as thecase might be), and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield’s Speak-ers, or a volume of parliamentary orations, thundered astonishinginvectives against them. Standing by the table, with his finger in thepage to keep the place, and his right arm flourishing above his head,Traddles, as Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, LordCastlereagh, Viscount Sidmouth, or Mr. Canning, would work him-self into the most violent heats, and deliver the most withering de-nunciations of the profligacy and corruption of my aunt and Mr.Dick; while I used to sit, at a little distance, with my notebook onmy knee, fagging after him with all my might and main. The inconsis-tency and recklessness of Traddles were not to be exceeded by any realpolitician. He was for any description of policy, in the compass of aweek; and nailed all sorts of colours to every denomination of mast. Myaunt, looking very like an immovable Chancellor of the Exchequer, wouldoccasionally throw in an interruption or two, as ‘Hear!’ or ‘No!’ or ‘Oh!’when the text seemed to require it: which was always a signal to Mr.Dick (a perfect country gentleman) to follow lustily with the same cry.But Mr. Dick got taxed with such things in the course of his Parliamen-tary career, and was made responsible for such awful consequences, thathe became uncomfortable in his mind sometimes. I believe he actuallybegan to be afraid he really had been doing something, tending to theannihilation of the British constitution, and the ruin of the country.

Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed

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to midnight, and the candles were burning down. The result of somuch good practice was, that by and by I began to keep pace withTraddles pretty well, and should have been quite triumphant if I hadhad the least idea what my notes were about. But, as to reading themafter I had got them, I might as well have copied the Chinese inscrip-tions of an immense collection of tea-chests, or the golden characterson all the great red and green bottles in the chemists’ shops!

There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over again.It was very hard, but I turned back, though with a heavy heart, andbegan laboriously and methodically to plod over the same tediousground at a snail’s pace; stopping to examine minutely every speck inthe way, on all sides, and making the most desperate efforts to knowthese elusive characters by sight wherever I met them. I was alwayspunctual at the office; at the Doctor’s too: and I really did work, asthe common expression is, like a cart-horse. One day, when I wentto the Commons as usual, I found Mr. Spenlow in the doorwaylooking extremely grave, and talking to himself. As he was in thehabit of complaining of pains in his head—he had naturally a shortthroat, and I do seriously believe he over-starched himself—I was atfirst alarmed by the idea that he was not quite right in that direction;but he soon relieved my uneasiness.

Instead of returning my ‘Good morning’ with his usual affability, helooked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly requested meto accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in those days, had adoor opening into the Commons, just within the little archway in St.Paul’s Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with awarm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions were breaking outinto buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before, on account ofthe narrowness of the way, I observed that he carried his head with a loftyair that was particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that hehad found out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I couldhardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followedhim into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, sup-ported by a background of sideboard, on which were several invertedtumblers sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes,all corners and flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, hap-pily for mankind, are now obsolete.

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Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severelyrigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and stoodon the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.

‘Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow,what you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.’

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my child-hood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in sympathywith the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it—opening her mouth alittle at the same time—and produced my last letter to Dora, teem-ing with expressions of devoted affection.

‘I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow.I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I

said, ‘It is, sir!’‘If I am not mistaken,’ said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone

brought a parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with thedearest bit of blue ribbon, ‘those are also from your pen, Mr.Copperfield?’

I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glanc-ing at such phrases at the top, as ‘My ever dearest and own Dora,’‘My best beloved angel,’ ‘My blessed one for ever,’ and the like,blushed deeply, and inclined my head.

‘No, thank you!’ said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically of-fered them back to him. ‘I will not deprive you of them. MissMurdstone, be so good as to proceed!’

That gentle creature, after a moment’s thoughtful survey of thecarpet, delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.

‘I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of MissSpenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I ob-served Miss Spenlow and David Copperfield, when they first met;and the impression made upon me then was not agreeable. The de-pravity of the human heart is such—’

‘You will oblige me, ma’am,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, ‘by con-fining yourself to facts.’

Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protestingagainst this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity resumed:

‘Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly asI can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of pro-

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ceeding. I have already said, sir, that I have had my suspicions of MissSpenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I havefrequently endeavoured to find decisive corroboration of those sus-picions, but without effect. I have therefore forborne to mentionthem to Miss Spenlow’s father’; looking severely at him—’knowinghow little disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowledgethe conscientious discharge of duty.’

Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness ofMiss Murdstone’s manner, and deprecated her severity with a concil-iatory little wave of his hand.

‘On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasionedby my brother’s marriage,’ pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainfulvoice, ‘and on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her friendMiss Mills, I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave megreater occasion for suspicion than before. Therefore I watched MissSpenlow closely.’

Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon’s eye!‘Still,’ resumed Miss Murdstone, ‘I found no proof until last night.

It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many letters fromher friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend with her father’sfull concurrence,’ another telling blow at Mr. Spenlow, ‘it was notfor me to interfere. If I may not be permitted to allude to the naturaldepravity of the human heart, at least I may—I must—be permit-ted, so far to refer to misplaced confidence.’

Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.‘Last evening after tea,’ pursued Miss Murdstone, ‘I observed the

little dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room,worrying something. I said to Miss Spenlow, “Dora, what is that thedog has in his mouth? It’s paper.” Miss Spenlow immediately puther hand to her frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I inter-posed, and said, “Dora, my love, you must permit me.” ‘

Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!‘Miss Spenlow endeavoured,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘to bribe me

with kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery—that, ofcourse, I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on myapproaching him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his mouth; and

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on my endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent risk ofbeing bitten, he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suf-fer himself to be held suspended in the air by means of the docu-ment. At length I obtained possession of it. After perusing it, I taxedMiss Spenlow with having many such letters in her possession; andultimately obtained from her the packet which is now in DavidCopperfield’s hand.’

Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting hermouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.

‘You have heard Miss Murdstone,’ said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me.‘I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in reply?’

The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of myheart, sobbing and crying all night—of her being alone, frightened,and wretched, then—of her having so piteously begged and prayedthat stony-hearted woman to forgive her—of her having vainly of-fered her those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets—of her being insuch grievous distress, and all for me—very much impaired the littledignity I had been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulousstate for a minute or so, though I did my best to disguise it.

‘There is nothing I can say, sir,’ I returned, ‘except that all the blameis mine. Dora—’

‘Miss Spenlow, if you please,’ said her father, majestically.‘—was induced and persuaded by me,’ I went on, swallowing that

colder designation, ‘to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly re-gret it.’

‘You are very much to blame, sir,’ said Mr. Spenlow, walking toand fro upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what he said with hiswhole body instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of hiscravat and spine. ‘You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action,Mr. Copperfield. When I take a gentleman to my house, no matterwhether he is nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in aspirit of confidence. If he abuses my confidence, he commits adishonourable action, Mr. Copperfield.’

‘I feel it, sir, I assure you,’ I returned. ‘But I never thought so,before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never thought so,before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent—’

‘Pooh! nonsense!’ said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. ‘Pray don’t tell

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me to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!’‘Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?’ I returned, with all

humility.‘Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?’ said Mr. Spenlow,

stopping short upon the hearth-rug. ‘Have you considered your years,and my daughter’s years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you considered whatit is to undermine the confidence that should subsist between mydaughter and myself? Have you considered my daughter’s station inlife, the projects I may contemplate for her advancement, the testa-mentary intentions I may have with reference to her? Have you con-sidered anything, Mr. Copperfield?’

‘Very little, sir, I am afraid;’ I answered, speaking to him as respect-fully and sorrowfully as I felt; ‘but pray believe me, I have consideredmy own worldly position. When I explained it to you, we were al-ready engaged—’

‘I beg,’ said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seenhim, as he energetically struck one hand upon the other—I couldnot help noticing that even in my despair; ‘that you will not talk tome of engagements, Mr. Copperfield!’

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptu-ously in one short syllable.

‘When I explained my altered position to you, sir,’ I began again,substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable tohim, ‘this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have ledMiss Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered position,I have strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it.I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time—anylength of time? We are both so young, sir,—’

‘You are right,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a greatmany times, and frowning very much, ‘you are both very young. It’sall nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away thoseletters, and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow’s letters tothrow in the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you areaware, be restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make nofurther mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don’t wantsense; and this is the sensible course.’

No. I couldn’t think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there

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was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthlyconsiderations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. Ididn’t exactly say so; I softened it down as much as I could; but Iimplied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don’t think I made myselfvery ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.

‘Very well, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I must try myinfluence with my daughter.’

Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respira-tion, which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave itas her opinion that he should have done this at first.

‘I must try,’ said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, ‘myinfluence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters,Mr. Copperfield?’ For I had laid them on the table.

Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I couldn’tpossibly take them from Miss Murdstone.

‘Nor from me?’ said Mr. Spenlow.No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.‘Very well!’ said Mr. Spenlow.A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At length

I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of sayingthat perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing: whenhe said, with his hands in his coat pockets, into which it was as muchas he could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon thewhole, a decidedly pious air:

‘You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogetherdestitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my nearestand dearest relative?’

I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the errorinto which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love,did not induce him to think me mercenary too?

‘I don’t allude to the matter in that light,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘Itwould be better for yourself, and all of us, if you were mercenary,Mr. Copperfield—I mean, if you were more discreet and less influ-enced by all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say, with quiteanother view, you are probably aware I have some property to be-queath to my child?’

I certainly supposed so.

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‘And you can hardly think,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘having experienceof what we see, in the Commons here, every day, of the variousunaccountable and negligent proceedings of men, in respect of theirtestamentary arrangements—of all subjects, the one on which per-haps the strangest revelations of human inconsistency are to be metwith—but that mine are made?’

I inclined my head in acquiescence.‘I should not allow,’ said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident increase of

pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as he poised himselfupon his toes and heels alternately, ‘my suitable provision for mychild to be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the present. Itis mere folly. Mere nonsense. In a little while, it will weigh lighterthan any feather. But I might—I might—if this silly business werenot completely relinquished altogether, be induced in some anxiousmoment to guard her from, and surround her with protections against,the consequences of any foolish step in the way of marriage. Now,Mr. Copperfield, I hope that you will not render it necessary for meto open, even for a quarter of an hour, that closed page in the bookof life, and unsettle, even for a quarter of an hour, grave affairs longsince composed.’

There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air about him,which quite affected me. He was so peaceful and resigned—clearlyhad his affairs in such perfect train, and so systematically woundup—that he was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of. Ireally think I saw tears rise to his eyes, from the depth of his ownfeeling of all this.

But what could I do? I could not deny Dora and my own heart.When he told me I had better take a week to consider of what he hadsaid, how could I say I wouldn’t take a week, yet how could I fail toknow that no amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?

‘In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with any personwith any knowledge of life,’ said Mr. Spenlow, adjusting his cravatwith both hands. ‘Take a week, Mr. Copperfield.’

I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I was able tomake it of dejected and despairing constancy, came out of the room.Miss Murdstone’s heavy eyebrows followed me to the door—I sayher eyebrows rather than her eyes, because they were much more

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important in her face—and she looked so exactly as she used to look,at about that hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone,that I could have fancied I had been breaking down in my lessonsagain, and that the dead weight on my mind was that horrible oldspelling-book, with oval woodcuts, shaped, to my youthful fancy,like the glasses out of spectacles.

When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and the restof them with my hands, sat at my desk, in my own particular nook,thinking of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly,and in the bitterness of my spirit cursing Jip, I fell into such a state oftorment about Dora, that I wonder I did not take up my hat andrush insanely to Norwood. The idea of their frightening her, andmaking her cry, and of my not being there to comfort her, was soexcruciating, that it impelled me to write a wild letter to Mr. Spenlow,beseeching him not to visit upon her the consequences of my awfuldestiny. I implored him to spare her gentle nature—not to crush afragile flower—and addressed him generally, to the best of my re-membrance, as if, instead of being her father, he had been an Ogre,or the Dragon of Wantley.3 This letter I sealed and laid upon hisdesk before he returned; and when he came in, I saw him, throughthe half-opened door of his room, take it up and read it.

He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went awayin the afternoon he called me in, and told me that I need not makemyself at all uneasy about his daughter’s happiness. He had assuredher, he said, that it was all nonsense; and he had nothing more to sayto her. He believed he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was), andI might spare myself any solicitude on her account.

‘You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obstinate, Mr.Copperfield,’ he observed, ‘for me to send my daughter abroad again,for a term; but I have a better opinion of you. I hope you will bewiser than that, in a few days. As to Miss Murdstone,’ for I hadalluded to her in the letter, ‘I respect that lady’s vigilance, and feelobliged to her; but she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All Idesire, Mr. Copperfield, is, that it should be forgotten. All you havegot to do, Mr. Copperfield, is to forget it.’

All! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted this senti-ment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm, was to forget

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Dora. That was all, and what was that! I entreated Miss Mills to seeme, that evening. If it could not be done with Mr. Mills’s sanctionand concurrence, I besought a clandestine interview in the back kitchenwhere the Mangle was. I informed her that my reason was totteringon its throne, and only she, Miss Mills, could prevent its being de-posed. I signed myself, hers distractedly; and I couldn’t help feeling,while I read this composition over, before sending it by a porter, thatit was something in the style of Mr. Micawber.

However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills’s street, and walkedup and down, until I was stealthily fetched in by Miss Mills’s maid, andtaken the area way to the back kitchen. I have since seen reason to believethat there was nothing on earth to prevent my going in at the front door,and being shown up into the drawing-room, except Miss Mills’s love ofthe romantic and mysterious.

In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I suppose,to make a fool of myself, and I am quite sure I did it. Miss Mills hadreceived a hasty note from Dora, telling her that all was discovered,and saying. ‘Oh pray come to me, Julia, do, do!’ But Miss Mills,mistrusting the acceptability of her presence to the higher powers,had not yet gone; and we were all benighted in the Desert of Sahara.

Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to pour them out.I could not help feeling, though she mingled her tears with mine, that shehad a dreadful luxury in our afflictions. She petted them, as I may say, andmade the most of them. A deep gulf, she observed, had opened betweenDora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow. Love mustsuffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it ever would be so. Nomatter, Miss Mills remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst atlast, and then Love was avenged.

This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn’t encouragefallacious hopes. She made me much more wretched than I was be-fore, and I felt (and told her with the deepest gratitude) that she wasindeed a friend. We resolved that she should go to Dora the firstthing in the morning, and find some means of assuring her, either bylooks or words, of my devotion and misery. We parted, overwhelmedwith grief; and I think Miss Mills enjoyed herself completely.

I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite of all shecould say to me, went to bed despairing. I got up despairing, and

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went out despairing. It was Saturday morning, and I went straight tothe Commons.

I was surprised, when I came within sight of our office-door, to seethe ticket-porters standing outside talking together, and some half-dozen stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up. I quick-ened my pace, and, passing among them, wondering at their looks,went hurriedly in.

The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey,for the first time in his life I should think, was sitting on somebodyelse’s stool, and had not hung up his hat.

‘This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,’ said he, as I entered.‘What is?’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s the matter?’‘Don’t you know?’ cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, coming

round me.‘No!’ said I, looking from face to face.‘Mr. Spenlow,’ said Tiffey.‘What about him!’‘Dead!’ I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as one of the

clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a chair, untied myneck-cloth, and brought me some water. I have no idea whether thistook any time.

‘Dead?’ said I.‘He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the phaeton by

himself,’ said Tiffey, ‘having sent his own groom home by the coach,as he sometimes did, you know—’

‘Well?’‘The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the

stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the carriage.’‘Had they run away?’‘They were not hot,’ said Tiffey, putting on his glasses; ‘no hotter,

I understand, than they would have been, going down at the usualpace. The reins were broken, but they had been dragging on theground. The house was roused up directly, and three of them wentout along the road. They found him a mile off.’

‘More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,’ interposed a junior.‘Was it? I believe you are right,’ said Tiffey,—’more than a mile

off—not far from the church—lying partly on the roadside, and

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partly on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell out in a fit, or gotout, feeling ill before the fit came on—or even whether he was quitedead then, though there is no doubt he was quite insensible—no oneappears to know. If he breathed, certainly he never spoke. Medicalassistance was got as soon as possible, but it was quite useless.’

I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown bythis intelligence. The shock of such an event happening so suddenly,and happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at vari-ance—the appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so lately,where his chair and table seemed to wait for him, and his handwritingof yesterday was like a ghost—the in—definable impossibility of sepa-rating him from the place, and feeling, when the door opened, as if hemight come in—the lazy hush and rest there was in the office, and theinsatiable relish with which our people talked about it, and other peoplecame in and out all day, and gorged themselves with the subject—thisis easily intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe is, how, in theinnermost recesses of my own heart, I had a lurking jealousy even ofDeath. How I felt as if its might would push me from my ground inDora’s thoughts. How I was, in a grudging way I have no words for,envious of her grief. How it made me restless to think of her weepingto others, or being consoled by others. How I had a grasping, avari-cious wish to shut out everybody from her but myself, and to be all inall to her, at that unseasonable time of all times.

In the trouble of this state of mind—not exclusively my own, Ihope, but known to others—I went down to Norwood that night;and finding from one of the servants, when I made my inquiries at thedoor, that Miss Mills was there, got my aunt to direct a letter to her,which I wrote. I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow, mostsincerely, and shed tears in doing so. I entreated her to tell Dora, ifDora were in a state to hear it, that he had spoken to me with theutmost kindness and consideration; and had coupled nothing but ten-derness, not a single or reproachful word, with her name. I know I didthis selfishly, to have my name brought before her; but I tried to be-lieve it was an act of justice to his memory. Perhaps I did believe it.

My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed, outside,to her; within, to me. Dora was overcome by grief; and when herfriend had asked her should she send her love to me, had only cried,

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as she was always crying, ‘Oh, dear papa! oh, poor papa!’ But she hadnot said No, and that I made the most of.

Mr. jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the occurrence, cameto the office a few days afterwards. He and Tiffey were closeted to-gether for some few moments, and then Tiffey looked out at thedoor and beckoned me in.

‘Oh!’ said Mr. jorkins. ‘Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Copperfield,are about to examine the desks, the drawers, and other such reposito-ries of the deceased, with the view of sealing up his private papers,and searching for a Will. There is no trace of any, elsewhere. It maybe as well for you to assist us, if you please.’

I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstancesin which my Dora would be placed—as, in whose guardianship, andso forth—and this was something towards it. We began the search atonce; Mr. jorkins unlocking the drawers and desks, and we all takingout the papers. The office-papers we placed on one side, and the pri-vate papers (which were not numerous) on the other. We were verygrave; and when we came to a stray seal, or pencil-case, or ring, or anylittle article of that kind which we associated personally with him, wespoke very low.

We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustilyand quietly, when Mr. jorkins said to us, applying exactly the samewords to his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:

‘Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track.You know what he was! I am disposed to think he had made no will.’

‘Oh, I know he had!’ said I.They both stopped and looked at me.‘On the very day when I last saw him,’ said I, ‘he told me that he

had, and that his affairs were long since settled.’Mr. jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.‘That looks unpromising,’ said Tiffey.‘Very unpromising,’ said Mr. jorkins.‘Surely you don’t doubt—’ I began.‘My good Mr. Copperfield!’ said Tiffey, laying his hand upon my

arm, and shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head: ‘if you hadbeen in the Commons as long as I have, you would know that there isno subject on which men are so inconsistent, and so little to be trusted.’

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‘Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!’ I replied persis-tently.

‘I should call that almost final,’ observed Tiffey. ‘My opinion is—no will.’

It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out that therewas no will. He had never so much as thought of making one, so faras his papers afforded any evidence; for there was no kind of hint,sketch, or memorandum, of any testamentary intention whatever.What was scarcely less astonishing to me, was, that his affairs were ina most disordered state. It was extremely difficult, I heard, to makeout what he owed, or what he had paid, or of what he died pos-sessed. It was considered likely that for years he could have had noclear opinion on these subjects himself. By little and little it cameout, that, in the competition on all points of appearance and gentil-ity then running high in the Commons, he had spent more than hisprofessional income, which was not a very large one, and had re-duced his private means, if they ever had been great (which was ex-ceedingly doubtful), to a very low ebb indeed. There was a sale of thefurniture and lease, at Norwood; and Tiffey told me, little thinkinghow interested I was in the story, that, paying all the just debts of thedeceased, and deducting his share of outstanding bad and doubtfuldebts due to the firm, he wouldn’t give a thousand pounds for all theassets remaining.

This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered tor-tures all the time; and thought I really must have laid violent handsupon myself, when Miss Mills still reported to me, that my broken-hearted little Dora would say nothing, when I was mentioned, but‘Oh, poor papa! Oh, dear papa!’ Also, that she had no other relationsthan two aunts, maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow, who lived at Putney,and who had not held any other than chance communication withtheir brother for many years. Not that they had ever quarrelled (MissMills informed me); but that having been, on the occasion of Dora’schristening, invited to tea, when they considered themselves privi-leged to be invited to dinner, they had expressed their opinion inwriting, that it was ‘better for the happiness of all parties’ that theyshould stay away. Since which they had gone their road, and theirbrother had gone his.

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These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and pro-posed to take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging to them both,and weeping, exclaimed, ‘O yes, aunts! Please take Julia Mills andme and Jip to Putney!’ So they went, very soon after the funeral.

How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don’t know; but Icontrived, by some means or other, to prowl about the neighbourhoodpretty often. Miss Mills, for the more exact discharge of the duties offriendship, kept a journal; and she used to meet me sometimes, onthe Common, and read it, or (if she had not time to do that) lend itto me. How I treasured up the entries, of which I subjoin a sample!—

‘Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Calledattention to J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J. Associationsthus awakened, opened floodgates of sorrow. Rush of grief admit-ted. (Are tears the dewdrops of the heart? J. M.)

‘Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do we notremark this in moon likewise? J. M.) D., J. M. and J. took airing incarriage. J. looking out of window, and barking violently at dustman,occasioned smile to overspread features of D. (Of such slight links ischain of life composed! J. M.)

‘Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as congenialmelody, “Evening Bells”. Effect not soothing, but reverse. D. inex-pressibly affected. Found sobbing afterwards, in own room. Quotedverses respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually. Also referredto Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J. M.)

‘Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge ofdamask revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name of D. C. Intro-duced same, cautiously, in course of airing. D. immediately over-come. “Oh, dear, dear Julia! Oh, I have been a naughty and undutifulchild!” Soothed and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D. C. on verge oftomb. D. again overcome. “Oh, what shall I do,what shall I do? Oh, take me somewhere!” Much alarmed. Faintingof D. and glass of water from public-house. (Poetical affinity.Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life. Alas! J. M.)

‘Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with blue bag, “forlady’s boots left out to heel”. Cook replies, “No such orders.” Manargues point. Cook withdraws to inquire, leaving man alone with J.On Cook’s return, man still argues point, but ultimately goes. J. miss-

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ing. D. distracted. Information sent to police. Man to be identified bybroad nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge. Search made in everydirection. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and inconsolable. Renewed refer-ence to young Gazelle. Appropriate, but unavailing. Towards evening,strange boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nose, but no balus-trades. Says he wants a pound, and knows a dog. Declines to explainfurther, though much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes Cookto little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table. joy of D. whodances round J. while he eats his supper. Emboldened by this happychange, mention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afresh, cries piteously, “Oh,don’t, don’t, don’t! It is so wicked to think of anything but poor papa!”—embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C. confine himselfto the broad pinions of Time? J. M.)’

Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this pe-riod. To see her, who had seen Dora but a little while before—totrace the initial letter of Dora’s name through her sympathetic pages—to be made more and more miserable by her—were my only com-forts. I felt as if I had been living in a palace of cards, which hadtumbled down, leaving only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; Ifelt as if some grim enchanter had drawn a magic circle round theinnocent goddess of my heart, which nothing indeed but those samestrong pinions, capable of carrying so many people over so much,would enable me to enter!

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CHAPTER 39WICKFIELD AND HEEP

MY AUNT, BEGINNING, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfort-able by my prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxiousthat I should go to Dover, to see that all was working well at thecottage, which was let; and to conclude an agreement, with the sametenant, for a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into theservice of Mrs. Strong, where I saw her every day. She had been un-decided, on leaving Dover, whether or no to give the finishing touchto that renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated, bymarrying a pilot; but she decided against that venture. Not so muchfor the sake of principle, I believe, as because she happened not tolike him.

Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell ratherwillingly into my aunt’s pretence, as a means of enabling me to passa few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor rela-tive to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me to takethat relaxation,—he wished me to take more; but my energy couldnot bear that,—I made up my mind to go.

As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular aboutmy duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in no verygood odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly slidingdown to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferentunder Mr. jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow’s time; and although it hadbeen quickened by the infusion of new blood, and by the displaywhich Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established on a suffi-ciently strong basis to bear, without being shaken, such a blow as thesudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very much. Mr. jorkins,notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was an easy-going, inca-

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pable sort of man, whose reputation out of doors was not calculatedto back it up. I was turned over to him now, and when I saw himtake his snuff and let the business go, I regretted my aunt’s thousandpounds more than ever.

But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-onand outsiders about the Commons, who, without being proctors them-selves, dabbled in common-form business, and got it done by realproctors, who lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil;—and there were a good many of these too. As our house now wantedbusiness on any terms, we joined this noble band; and threw out luresto the hangers-on and outsiders, to bring their business to us. Marriagelicences and small probates were what we all looked for, and what paidus best; and the competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnap-pers and inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to theCommons, with instructions to do their utmost to cut off all personsin mourning, and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appear-ance, and entice them to the offices in which their respective employ-ers were interested; which instructions were so well observed, that Imyself, before I was known by sight, was twice hustled into the pre-mises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of these tout-ing gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their feelings, personal col-lisions took place; and the Commons was even scandalized by ourprincipal inveigler (who had formerly been in the wine trade, andafterwards in the sworn brokery line) walking about for some dayswith a black eye. Any one of these scouts used to think nothing ofpolitely assisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle, killing anyproctor whom she inquired for, representing his employer as the lawfulsuccessor and representative of that proctor, and bearing the old ladyoff (sometimes greatly affected) to his employer’s office. Many cap-tives were brought to me in this way. As to marriage licences, thecompetition rose to such a pitch, that a shy gentleman in want ofone, had nothing to do but submit himself to the first inveigler, orbe fought for, and become the prey of the strongest. One of ourclerks, who was an outsider, used, in the height of this contest, to sitwith his hat on, that he might be ready to rush out and swear beforea surrogate any victim who was brought in. The system of inveiglingcontinues, I believe, to this day. The last time I was in the Com-

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mons, a civil able-bodied person in a white apron pounced out uponme from a doorway, and whispering the word ‘Marriage-licence’ inmy ear, was with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in hisarms and lifting me into a proctor’s. From this digression, let meproceed to Dover.

I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; and wasenabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenantinherited her feud, and waged incessant war against donkeys. Havingsettled the little business I had to transact there, and slept there onenight, I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning. It was nowwinter again; and the fresh, cold windy day, and the sweepingdownland, brightened up my hopes a little.

Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with asober pleasure that calmed my spirits, and eased my heart. Therewere the old signs, the old names over the shops, the old peopleserving in them. It appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboythere, that I wondered the place was so little changed, until I re-flected how little I was changed myself. Strange to say, that quietinfluence which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed topervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral tow-ers, and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made themmore retired than perfect silence would have done; the battered gate-ways, one stuck full with statues, long thrown down, and crumbledaway, like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon them; thestill nooks, where the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabledends and ruined walls; the ancient houses, the pastoral landscape offield, orchard, and garden; everywhere—on everything—I felt thesame serener air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit.

Arrived at Mr. Wickfield’s house, I found, in the little lower roomon the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomedto sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He wasdressed in a legal-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and large,in that small office.

Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confusedtoo. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence ofUriah, but I declined.

‘I know the house of old, you recollect,’ said I, ‘and will find my

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way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?’‘My dear Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘To a man possessed of the

higher imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is theamount of detail which they involve. Even in our professionalcorrespondence,’ said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters hewas writing, ‘the mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted formof expression. Still, it is a great pursuit. A great pursuit!’

He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep’sold house; and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receiveme, once more, under her own roof.

‘It is humble,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘—to quote a favourite expres-sion of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone to moreambitious domiciliary accommodation.’

I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with hisfriend Heep’s treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the doorwere close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice:

‘My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure ofpecuniary embarrassments, is, with the generality of people, at a dis-advantage. That disadvantage is not diminished, when that pressurenecessitates the drawing of stipendiary emoluments, before thoseemoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is, that myfriend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not moreparticularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally to thehonour of his head, and of his heart.’

‘I should not have supposed him to be very free with his moneyeither,’ I observed.

‘Pardon me!’ said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, ‘I speakof my friend Heep as I have experience.’

‘I am glad your experience is so favourable,’ I returned.‘You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber;

and hummed a tune.‘Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?’ I asked, to change the subject.‘Not much,’ said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. ‘Mr. Wickfield is, I

dare say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he is—in short, he isobsolete.’

‘I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,’ said I.‘My dear Copperfield!’ returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy

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evolutions on his stool, ‘allow me to offer a remark! I am here, in acapacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust. The discus-sion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so long thepartner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkablelucidity of intellect), is, I am led to consider, incompatible with thefunctions now devolving on me. I would therefore take the libertyof suggesting that in our friendly intercourse—which I trust willnever be disturbed!—we draw a line. On one side of this line,’ saidMr. Micawber, representing it on the desk with the office ruler, ‘isthe whole range of the human intellect, with a trifling exception; onthe other, is that exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs Wickfieldand Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I trust Igive no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting thisproposition to his cooler judgement?’

Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightlyon him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right tobe offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and heshook hands with me.

‘I am charmed, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘let me assureyou, with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of veryremarkable attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,’ saidMr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with hisgenteelest air, ‘I do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!’ ‘I am glad ofthat, at least,’ said I.

‘If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasionof that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing withyou, that D. was your favourite letter,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I shouldunquestionably have supposed that A. had been so.’

We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us occa-sionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and donebefore, in a remote time—of our having been surrounded, dim agesago, by the same faces, objects, and circumstances—of our knowingperfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly remembered it! Inever had this mysterious impression more strongly in my life, thanbefore he uttered those words.

I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him withmy best remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his

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stool and his pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it intoeasier writing order, I clearly perceived that there was something in-terposed between him and me, since he had come into his new func-tions, which prevented our getting at each other as we used to do,and quite altered the character of our intercourse.

There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it pre-sented tokens of Mrs. Heep’s whereabouts. I looked into the roomstill belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at a prettyold-fashioned desk she had, writing.

My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to bethe cause of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object ofthat sweet regard and welcome!

‘Ah, Agnes!’ said I, when we were sitting together, side by side; ‘Ihave missed you so much, lately!’

‘Indeed?’ she replied. ‘Again! And so soon?’I shook my head.‘I don’t know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind

that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking forme, in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you forcounsel and support, that I really think I have missed acquiring it.’

‘And what is it?’ said Agnes, cheerfully.‘I don’t know what to call it,’ I replied. ‘I think I am earnest and

persevering?’‘I am sure of it,’ said Agnes.‘And patient, Agnes?’ I inquired, with a little hesitation.‘Yes,’ returned Agnes, laughing. ‘Pretty well.’‘And yet,’ said I, ‘I get so miserable and worried, and am so un-

steady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know Imust want—shall I call it—reliance, of some kind?’

‘Call it so, if you will,’ said Agnes.‘Well!’ I returned. ‘See here! You come to London, I rely on you,

and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it, Icome here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The circum-stances that distressed me are not changed, since I came into thisroom; but an influence comes over me in that short interval thatalters me, oh, how much for the better! What is it? What is yoursecret, Agnes?’

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Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.‘It’s the old story,’ said I. ‘Don’t laugh, when I say it was always the

same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old troubles werenonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I have gone awayfrom my adopted sister -’

Agnes looked up—with such a Heavenly face!—and gave me herhand, which I kissed.

‘Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in thebeginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts ofdifficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always done),I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like a tiredtraveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!’

I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that myvoice failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke intotears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and inconsistenciesthere were within me, as there are within so many of us; whatevermight have been so different, and so much better; whatever I haddone, in which I had perversely wandered away from the voice of myown heart; I knew nothing of. I only knew that I was fervently inearnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having Agnes near me.

In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her ten-der voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago madethe house that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon won mefrom this weakness, and led me on to tell all that had happened sinceour last meeting.

‘And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,’ said I, when I hadmade an end of my confidence. ‘Now, my reliance is on you.’

‘But it must not be on me, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, with apleasant smile. ‘It must be on someone else.’

‘On Dora?’ said I.‘Assuredly.’‘Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,’ said I, a little embarrassed,

‘that Dora is rather difficult to—I would not, for the world, say, torely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth—but ratherdifficult to—I hardly know how to express it, really, Agnes. She is atimid little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened. Some timeago, before her father’s death, when I thought it right to mention to

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her—but I’ll tell you, if you will bear with me, how it was.’Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about

the cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of it.‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she remonstrated, with a smile. ‘Just your old

headlong way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on inthe world, without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inex-perienced girl. Poor Dora!’

I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen heradmiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me,by her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering thatlittle heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating artless-ness, caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealingagainst me, and loving me with all her childish innocence.

I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those twotogether, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends, eachadorning the other so much!

‘What ought I to do then, Agnes?’ I inquired, after looking at thefire a little while. ‘What would it be right to do?’

‘I think,’ said Agnes, ‘that the honourable course to take, would beto write to those two ladies. Don’t you think that any secret course isan unworthy one?’

‘Yes. If you think so,’ said I.‘I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,’ replied Agnes,

with a modest hesitation, ‘but I certainly feel—in short, I feel thatyour being secret and clandestine, is not being like yourself.’

‘Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I amafraid,’ said I.

‘Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,’ she returned; ‘andtherefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate, as plainlyand as openly as possible, all that has taken place; and I would asktheir permission to visit sometimes, at their house. Considering thatyou are young, and striving for a place in life, I think it would be wellto say that you would readily abide by any conditions they mightimpose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request,without a reference to Dora; and to discuss it with her when theyshould think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement,’ said

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Agnes, gently, ‘or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelityand perseverance—and to Dora.’

‘But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking toher,’ said I. ‘And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about me!’

‘Is that likely?’ inquired Agnes, with the same sweet considerationin her face.

‘God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,’ said I. ‘It might be! Orif the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort are odd characterssometimes) should not be likely persons to address in that way!’

‘I don’t think, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes tomine, ‘I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only toconsider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.’

I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart,though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of mytask, I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draftof this letter; for which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk tome. But first I went downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep.

I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office, builtout in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst of aquantity of books and papers. He received me in his usual fawningway, and pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr.Micawber; a pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompa-nied me into Mr. Wickfield’s room, which was the shadow of itsformer self—having been divested of a variety of conveniences, forthe accommodation of the new partner—and stoodbefore the fire, warming his back, and shaving his chin with his bonyhand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.

‘You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?’said Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval.

‘Is there room for me?’ said I.‘I am sure, Master Copperfield—I should say Mister, but the other

comes so natural,’ said Uriah, — ‘I would turn out of your old roomwith pleasure, if it would be agreeable.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Why should you be inconvenienced?There’s another room. There’s another room.’

‘Oh, but you know,’ returned Uriah, with a grin, ‘I should reallybe delighted!’

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To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room ornone at all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and,taking my leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again.

I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs.Heep had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near thefire, in that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more favourablefor her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room ordining-parlour. Though I could almost have consigned her to the mer-cies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, withoutremorse, I made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation.

‘I’m umbly thankful to you, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, inacknowledgement of my inquiries concerning her health, ‘but I’monly pretty well. I haven’t much to boast of. If I could see my Uriahwell settled in life, I couldn’t expect much more I think. How doyou think my Ury looking, sir?’

I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I sawno change in him.

‘Oh, don’t you think he’s changed?’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘There I mustumbly beg leave to differ from you. Don’t you see a thinness in him?’

‘Not more than usual,’ I replied.‘Don’t you though!’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘But you don’t take notice of

him with a mother’s eye!’His mother’s eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought as

it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I believe she and herson were devoted to one another. It passed me, and went on to Agnes.

‘Don’t you see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?’inquired Mrs. Heep.

‘No,’ said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she wasengaged. ‘You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.’

Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting.She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in

the day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner; but she satthere, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as an hour-glassmight have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of the fire; I satat the desk in front of it; a little beyond me, on the other side, satAgnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted up myeyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw it clear, and

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beam encouragement upon me, with its own angelic expression, Iwas conscious presently of the evil eye passing me, and going on toher, and coming back to me again, and dropping furtively upon theknitting. What the knitting was, I don’t know, not being learned inthat art; but it looked like a net; and as she worked away with thoseChinese chopsticks of knitting-needles, she showed in the firelightlike an ill-looking enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant good-ness opposite, but getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.

At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinkingeyes. After dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield,himself, and I were left alone together, leered at me, and writheduntil I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the motherknitting and watching again. All the time that Agnes sang and played,the mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad,which she said her Ury (who was yawning in a great chair) doted on;and at intervals she looked round at him, and reported to Agnes thathe was in raptures with the music. But she hardly ever spoke—Iquestion if she ever did—without making some mention of him. Itwas evident to me that this was the duty assigned to her.

This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, liketwo great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it withtheir ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would ratherhave remained downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I hardlygot any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began again, andlasted all day.

I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes. Icould barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me;but Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes chari-tably remained within, to bear her company. Towards the twilight Iwent out by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I wasjustified in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uriah Heep hadtold me in London; for that began to trouble me again, very much.

I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town,upon the Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I washailed, through the dust, by somebody behind me. The shamblingfigure, and the scanty great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped,and Uriah Heep came up.

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‘Well?’ said I.‘How fast you walk!’ said he. ‘My legs are pretty long, but you’ve

given ‘em quite a job.’‘Where are you going?’ said I.‘I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you’ll allow me the

pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.’ Saying this, with a jerkof his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive,he fell into step beside me.

‘Uriah!’ said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.‘Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah.‘To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I came

Out to walk alone, because I have had so much company.’He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, ‘You

mean mother.’‘Why yes, I do,’ said I.‘Ah! But you know we’re so very umble,’ he returned. ‘And having

such a knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take carethat we’re not pushed to the wall by them as isn’t umble. All strata-gems are fair in love, sir.’

Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed themsoftly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon, Ithought, as anything human could look.

‘You see,’ he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way, andshaking his head at me, ‘you’re quite a dangerous rival, MasterCopperfield. You always was, you know.’

‘Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home nohome, because of me?’ said I.

‘Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,’ he replied.‘Put my meaning into any words you like,’ said I. ‘You know what

it is, Uriah, as well as I do.’‘Oh no! You must put it into words,’ he said. ‘Oh, really! I couldn’t

myself.’‘Do you suppose,’ said I, constraining myself to be very temperate

and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, ‘that I regard Miss Wickfieldotherwise than as a very dear sister?’

‘Well, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, ‘you perceive I am not boundto answer that question. You may not, you know. But then, you see,you may!’

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Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of hisshadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.

‘Come then!’ said I. ‘For the sake of Miss Wickfield—’‘My Agnes!’ he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of

himself. ‘Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master Copperfield!’‘For the sake of Agnes Wickfield—Heaven bless her!’‘Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!’he interposed.‘I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as

soon have thought of telling to—Jack Ketch.’‘To who, sir?’ said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and shading his

ear with his hand.‘To the hangman,’ I returned. ‘The most unlikely person I could

think of,’—though his own face had suggested the allusion quite as anatural sequence. ‘I am engaged to another young lady. I hope thatcontents you.’

‘Upon your soul?’ said Uriah.I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he

required, when he caught hold of my hand, and gave it a squeeze.‘Oh, Master Copperfield!’ he said. ‘If you had only had the conde-

scension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness ofmy art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleepingbefore your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As itis, I’m sure I’ll take off mother directly, and only too appy. I knowyou’ll excuse the precautions of affection, won’t you? What a pity,Master Copperfield, that you didn’t condescend to return my confi-dence! I’m sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never havecondescended to me, as much as I could have wished. I know youhave never liked me, as I have liked you!’

All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fin-gers, while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But Iwas quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm with him.

‘Shall we turn?’ said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face abouttowards the town, on which the early moon was now shining, silver-ing the distant windows.

‘Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,’ said I, break-

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ing a pretty long silence, ‘that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far aboveyou, and as far removed from all your aspirations, as that moon herself!’

‘Peaceful! Ain’t she!’ said Uriah. ‘Very! Now confess, MasterCopperfield, that you haven’t liked me quite as I have liked you. Allalong you’ve thought me too umble now, I shouldn’t wonder?’

‘I am not fond of professions of humility,’ I returned, ‘or profes-sions of anything else.’

‘There now!’ said Uriah, looking flabby and lead-coloured in themoonlight. ‘Didn’t I know it! But how little you think of the right-ful umbleness of a person in my station, Master Copperfield! Fatherand me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys; andmother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort ofcharitable, establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness—not much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to beumble to this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our capshere, and to make bows there; and always to know our place, andabase ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters!Father got the monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father gotmade a sexton by being umble. He had the character, among thegentlefolks, of being such a well-behaved man, that they were deter-mined to bring him in. “Be umble, Uriah,” says father to me, “andyou’ll get on. It was what was always being dinned into you and meat school; it’s what goes down best. Be umble,” says father,” andyou’ll do!” And really it ain’t done bad!’

It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this detestablecant of false humility might have originated out of the Heep family.I had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed.

‘When I was quite a young boy,’ said Uriah, ‘I got to know whatumbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite. Istopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I, “Hold hard!”When you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. “People like tobe above you,” says father, “keep yourself down.” I am very umble tothe present moment, Master Copperfield, but I’ve got a little power!’

And he said all this—I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight—that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself byusing his power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft and mal-ice; but I fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a base,

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unrelenting, and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered by thisearly, and this long, suppression.

His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable result,that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he might haveanother hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from him, I wasdetermined to keep apart; and we walked back, side by side, sayingvery little more by the way. Whether his spirits were elevated by thecommunication I had made to him, or by his having indulged in thisretrospect, I don’t know; but they were raised by some influence. Hetalked more at dinner than was usual with him; asked his mother (offduty, from the moment of our re-entering the house) whether he wasnot growing too old for a bachelor; and once looked at Agnes so, thatI would have given all I had, for leave to knock him down.

When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into amore adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine; and I pre-sume it was the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him, flushedperhaps by the temptation my presence furnished to its exhibition.

I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield todrink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as shewent out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed thatwe should follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriahwas too quick for me.

‘We seldom see our present visitor, sir,’ he said, addressing Mr.Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the table,‘and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or twoof wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth andappiness!’

I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretchedacross to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took thehand of the broken gentleman, his partner.

‘Come, fellow-partner,’ said Uriah, ‘if I may take the liberty,—now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate toCopperfield!’

I pass over Mr. Wickfield’s proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick,his proposing Doctors’ Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking every-thing twice; his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort thathe made against it; the struggle between his shame in Uriah’s deportment,

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and his desire to conciliate him; the manifest exultation with which Uriahtwisted and turned, and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart tosee, and my hand recoils from writing it.

‘Come, fellow-partner!’ said Uriah, at last, ‘I’ll give you anotherone, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it thedivinest of her sex.’

Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down,look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, andshrink back in his elbow-chair.

‘I’m an umble individual to give you her elth,’ proceeded Uriah,‘but I admire—adore her.’

No physical pain that her father’s grey head could have borne, Ithink, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endur-ance I saw compressed now within both his hands.

‘Agnes,’ said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing whatthe nature of his action was, ‘Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, thedivinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To be her fatheris a proud distinction, but to be her usband—’

Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which herfather rose up from the table! ‘What’s the matter?’ said Uriah, turn-ing of a deadly colour. ‘You are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield,I hope? If I say I’ve an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, Ihave as good a right to it as another man. I have a better right to itthan any other man!’

I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everythingthat I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calmhimself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair,beating his head, trying to force me from him, and to force himselffrom me, not answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone;blindly striving for he knew not what, his face all staring and dis-torted—a frightful spectacle.

I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner,not to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought himto think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, torecollect how Agnes and I had grown up together, how I honoured herand loved her, how she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her ideabefore him in any form; I even reproached him with not having firmness

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to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may have effectedsomething, or his wildness may have spent itself; but by degrees hestruggled less, and began to look at me—strangely at first, then withrecognition in his eyes. At length he said, ‘I know, Trotwood! My dar-ling child and you—I know! But look at him!’

He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidentlyvery much out in his calculations, and taken by surprise.

‘Look at my torturer,’ he replied. ‘Before him I have step by stepabandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home.’

‘I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace andquiet, and your house and home too,’ said Uriah, with a sulky, hur-ried, defeated air of compromise. ‘Don’t be foolish, Mr. Wickfield.If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can goback, I suppose? There’s no harm done.’

‘I looked for single motives in everyone,’ said Mr. Wickfield, andI was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But seewhat he is—oh, see what he is!’

‘You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,’ cried Uriah,with his long forefinger pointing towards me. ‘He’ll say somethingpresently—mind you!—he’ll be sorry to have said afterwards, andyou’ll be sorry to have heard!’

‘I’ll say anything!’ cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air. ‘Whyshould I not be in all the world’s power if I am in yours?’

‘Mind! I tell you!’ said Uriah, continuing to warn me. ‘If you don’tstop his mouth, you’re not his friend! Why shouldn’t you be in all theworld’s power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughter. Youand me know what we know, don’t we? Let sleeping dogs lie—whowants to rouse ‘em? I don’t. Can’t you see I am as umble as I can be? Itell you, if I’ve gone too far, I’m sorry. What would you have, sir?’

‘Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!’exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing hishands. ‘What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in thishouse! I was on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary roadI have traversed since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence inremembrance, and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief formy child’s mother turned to disease; my natural love for my childturned to disease. I have infected everything I touched. I have broughtmisery on what I dearly love, I know—you know! I thought it pos-

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sible that I could truly love one creature in the world, and not lovethe rest; I thought it possible that I could truly mourn for one crea-ture gone out of the world, and not have some part in the grief of allwho mourned. Thus the lessons of my life have been perverted! Ihave preyed on my own morbid coward heart, and it has preyed onme. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid in my miserableescape from the darker side of both,oh see the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me!’

He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement intowhich he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner.

‘I don’t know all I have done, in my fatuity,’ said Mr. Wickfield,putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. ‘He knowsbest,’ meaning Uriah Heep, ‘for he has always been at my elbow, whis-pering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You find himin my house, you find him in my business. You heard him, but a littletime ago. What need have I to say more!’

‘You haven’t need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anythingat all,’ observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. ‘You wouldn’thave took it up so, if it hadn’t been for the wine. You’ll think betterof it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much, or more than I meant,what of it? I haven’t stood by it!’

The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colourin her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, ‘Papa, youare not well. Come with me!’

He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed withheavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but aninstant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed.

‘I didn’t expect he’d cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,’ saidUriah. ‘But it’s nothing. I’ll be friends with him tomorrow. It’s forhis good. I’m umbly anxious for his good.’

I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room whereAgnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came nearme until late at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard theclocks strike twelve, and was still reading, without knowing what Iread, when Agnes touched me.

‘You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us saygood-bye, now!’

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She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful!‘Heaven bless you!’ she said, giving me her hand.‘Dearest Agnes!’ I returned, ‘I see you ask me not to speak of to-

night—but is there nothing to be done?’‘There is God to trust in!’ she replied.‘Can I do nothing—I, who come to you with my poor sorrows?’‘And make mine so much lighter,’ she replied. ‘Dear Trotwood, no!’‘Dear Agnes,’ I said, ‘it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor

in all in which you are so rich—goodness, resolution, all noble quali-ties—to doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love you,and how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mis-taken sense of duty, Agnes?’

More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took herhands from me, and moved a step back.

‘Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sis-ter! Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a loveas yours!’

Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me, withits momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting.Oh, long, long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now,into the lovely smile, with which she told me she had no fear forherself—I need have none for her—and parted from me by the nameof Brother, and was gone!

It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the inndoor. The day was just breaking when we were about to start, andthen, as I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side,through the mingled day and night, Uriah’s head.

‘Copperfield!’ said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by theiron on the roof, ‘I thought you’d be glad to hear before you wentoff, that there are no squares broke between us. I’ve been into hisroom already, and we’ve made it all smooth. Why, though I’m umble,I’m useful to him, you know; and he understands his interest whenhe isn’t in liquor! What an agreeable man he is, after all, MasterCopperfield!’

I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.‘Oh, to be sure!’ said Uriah. ‘When a person’s umble, you know,

what’s an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,’ with a jerk, ‘you have

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sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripe, MasterCopperfield?’

‘I suppose I have,’ I replied.‘I did that last night,’ said Uriah; ‘but it’ll ripen yet! It only wants

attending to. I can wait!’Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got

up. For anything I know, he was eating something to keep the rawmorning air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pearwere ripe already, and he were smacking his lips over it.

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CHAPTER 40THE WANDERER

WE HAD A VERY SERIOUS conversation in Buckingham Street that night,about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter.My aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and downthe room with her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards.Whenever she was particularly discomposed, she always performedone of these pedestrian feats; and the amount of her discomposuremight always be estimated by the duration of her walk. On this occasionshe was so much disturbed in mind as to find it necessary to open thebedroom door, and make a course for herself, comprising the full extentof the bedrooms from wall to wall; and while Mr. Dick and I sat quietlyby the fire, she kept passing in and out, along this measured track, at anunchanging pace, with the regularity of a clock-pendulum.

When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick’s goingout to bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. Bythat time she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her dresstucked up as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual manner, hold-ing her glass upon her knee, she suffered it to stand neglected on thechimney-piece; and, resting her left elbow on her right arm, and herchin on her left hand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raisedmy eyes from what I was about, I met hers. ‘I am in the lovingest oftempers, my dear,’ she would assure me with a nod, ‘but I am fidg-eted and sorry!’

I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed,that she had left her night-mixture, as she always called it, untastedon the chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even more thanher usual affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint her withthis discovery; but only said, ‘I have not the heart to take it, Trot,tonight,’ and shook her head, and went in again.

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She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and ap-proved of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait, aspatiently as I could, for the reply. I was still in this state of expecta-tion, and had been, for nearly a week; when I left the Doctor’s onesnowy night, to walk home.

It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had blownfor some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so thesnow had come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in greatflakes; and it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of people wereas hushed, as if the streets had been strewn that depth with feathers.

My shortest way home,—and I naturally took the shortest way onsuch a night—was through St. Martin’s Lane. Now, the church whichgives its name to the lane, stood in a less free situation at that time;there being no open space before it, and the lane winding down tothe Strand. As I passed the steps of the portico, I encountered, at thecorner, a woman’s face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrowlane, and disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But Icould not remember where. I had some association with it, that struckupon my heart directly; but I was thinking of anything else when itcame upon me, and was confused.

On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man,who had put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it;my seeing the face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don’tthink I had stopped in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on, herose, turned, and came down towards me. I stood face to face withMr. Peggotty!

Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emilyhad given the money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell—sideby side with whom, he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham hadtold me, for all the treasures wrecked in the sea.

We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word.‘Mas’r Davy!’ he said, gripping me tight, ‘it do my art good to see

you, sir. Well met, well met!’‘Well met, my dear old friend!’ said I.‘I had my thowts o’ coming to make inquiration for you, sir, to-

night,’ he said, ‘but knowing as your aunt was living along wi’ you—fur I’ve been down yonder—Yarmouth way—I was afeerd it was too

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late. I should have come early in the morning, sir, afore going away.’‘Again?’ said I.‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, patiently shaking his head, ‘I’m away tomorrow.’‘Where were you going now?’ I asked.‘Well!’ he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, ‘I was a-

going to turn in somewheers.’In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the Golden

Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his misfortune,nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put myarm through his, and we went across. Two or three public-rooms openedout of the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding itempty, and a good fire burning, I took him in there.

When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair waslong and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He wasgreyer, the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had everyappearance of having toiled and wandered through all varieties of weather;but he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by steadfastness ofpurpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow from his hatand clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was inwardlymaking these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table, with hisback to the door by which we had entered, he put out his rough handagain, and grasped mine warmly.

‘I’ll tell you, Mas’r Davy,’ he said,—’wheer all I’ve been, and what-all we’ve heerd. I’ve been fur, and we’ve heerd little; but I’ll tell you!’

I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothingstronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmedat the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in hisface, I did not venture to disturb.

‘When she was a child,’ he said, lifting up his head soon after wewere left alone, ‘she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and aboutthem coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a-shiningand a-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her father beingdrownded made her think on it so much. I doen’t know, you see, butmaybe she believed—or hoped—he had drifted out to them parts,where the flowers is always a-blowing, and the country bright.’

‘It is likely to have been a childish fancy,’ I replied.‘When she was—lost,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I know’d in my mind,

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as he would take her to them countries. I know’d in my mind, as he’dhave told her wonders of ‘em, and how she was to be a lady theer,and how he got her to listen to him fust, along o’ sech like. When wesee his mother, I know’d quite well as I was right. I went across-channel to France, and landed theer, as if I’d fell down from the sky.’

I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move a littlemore, and a hand softly interpose to keep it open.

‘I found out an English gen’leman as was in authority,’ said Mr. Peggotty,‘and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me them papers as Iwanted fur to carry me through—I doen’t rightly know how they’recalled—and he would have give me money, but that I was thankful tohave no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I’m sure! “I’ve wroteafore you,” he says to me, “and I shall speak to many as will come that way,and many will know you, fur distant from here, when you’re a-travellingalone.” I told him, best as I was able, what my gratitoode was, and wentaway through France.’

‘Alone, and on foot?’ said I.‘Mostly a-foot,’ he rejoined; ‘sometimes in carts along with people

going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, and often with some poor soldier or another, travelling to see hisfriends. I couldn’t talk to him,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘nor he to me; butwe was company for one another, too, along the dusty roads.’

I should have known that by his friendly tone.‘When I come to any town,’ he pursued, ‘I found the inn, and waited

about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as know’dEnglish. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my niece, andthey told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waitedto see any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn’t Em’ly, Iwent on agen. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that,among the poor people, I found they know’d about me. They would setme down at their cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to eat anddrink, and show me where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas’r Davy, ashas had a daughter of about Em’ly’s age, I’ve found a-waiting fur me, atOur Saviour’s Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim’lar kindnesses.Some has had daughters as was dead. And God only knows how goodthem mothers was to me!’

It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face dis-

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tinctly. My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her too.‘They would often put their children—particular their little girls,’

said Mr. Peggotty, ‘upon my knee; and many a time you might haveseen me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in, a’most as ifthey’d been my Darling’s children. Oh, my Darling!’

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trem-bling hand upon the hand he put before his face. ‘Thankee, sir,’ hesaid, ‘doen’t take no notice.’

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast,and went on with his story. ‘They often walked with me,’ he said, ‘inthe morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road; and when we parted,and I said, “I’m very thankful to you! God bless you!” they alwaysseemed to understand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea.It warn’t hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to workhis way over to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had doneafore. The people was just as good to me, and I should have gone fromtown to town, maybe the country through, but that I got news of herbeing seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know’d hisservant see ‘em there, all three, and told me how they travelled, andwhere they was. I made fur them mountains, Mas’r Davy, day andnight. Ever so fur as I went, ever so fur the mountains seemed to shiftaway from me. But I come up with ‘em, and I crossed ‘em. When I gotnigh the place as I had been told of, I began to think within my ownself, “What shall I do when I see her?”’

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped atthe door, and the hands begged me—prayed me—not to cast it forth.

‘I never doubted her,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘No! Not a bit! On’y lether see my face—on’y let her beer my voice—on’y let my stanningstill afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled awayfrom, and the child she had been—and if she had growed to be aroyal lady, she’d have fell down at my feet! I know’d it well! Many atime in my sleep had I heerd her cry out, “Uncle!” and seen her falllike death afore me. Many a time in my sleep had I raised her up, andwhispered to her, “Em’ly, my dear, I am come fur to bring forgive-ness, and to take you home!”’

He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.‘He was nowt to me now. Em’ly was all. I bought a country dress

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to put upon her; and I know’d that, once found, she would walkbeside me over them stony roads, go where I would, and never, never,leave me more. To put that dress upon her, and to cast off what shewore—to take her on my arm again, and wander towards home—tostop sometimes upon the road, and heal her bruised feet and herworse-bruised heart—was all that I thowt of now. I doen’t believe Ishould have done so much as look at him. But, Mas’r Davy, it warn’tto be—not yet! I was too late, and they was gone. Wheer, I couldn’tlearn. Some said beer, some said theer. I travelled beer, and I travelledtheer, but I found no Em’ly, and I travelled home.’

‘How long ago?’ I asked.‘A matter o’ fower days,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I sighted the old boat

arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I come nighand looked in through the glass, I see the faithful creetur MissisGummidge sittin’ by the fire, as we had fixed upon, alone. I calledout, “Doen’t be afeerd! It’s Dan’l!” and I went in. I never could havethowt the old boat would have been so strange!’ From some pocketin his breast, he took out, with a very careful hand a small paperbundle containing two or three letters or little packets, which he laidupon the table.

‘This fust one come,’ he said, selecting it from the rest, ‘afore I hadbeen gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of paper,directed to me, and put underneath the door in the night.She tried to hide her writing, but she couldn’t hide it from Me!’

He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in ex-actly the same form, and laid it on one side.

‘This come to Missis Gummidge,’ he said, opening another, ‘twoor three months ago.’After looking at it for some moments, he gaveit to me, and added in a low voice, ‘Be so good as read it, sir.’

I read as follows:

‘Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know itcomes from my wicked hand! But try, try—not for my sake, but foruncle’s goodness, try to let your heart soften to me, only for a littlelittle time! Try, pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and writedown on a bit of paper whether he is well, and what he said aboutme before you left off ever naming me among yourselves—and

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whether, of a night, when it is my old time of coming home, youever see him look as if he thought of one he used to love so dear. Oh,my heart is breaking when I think about it! I am kneeling down toyou, begging and praying you not to be as hard with me as I de-serve—as I well, well, know I deserve—but to be so gentle and sogood, as to write down something of him, and to send it to me. Youneed not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I havedisgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far asto write me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this worldby my eyes again!

‘Dear, if your heart is hard towards me—justly hard, I know—but, listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most—himwhose wife I was to have been—before you quite decide against mypoor poor prayer! If he should be so compassionate as to say that youmight write something for me to read—I think he would, oh, Ithink he would, if you would only ask him, for he always was sobrave and so forgiving—tell him then (but not else), that when Ihear the wind blowing at night, I feel as if it was passing angrily fromseeing him and uncle, and was going up to God against me. Tell himthat if I was to die tomorrow (and oh, if I was fit, I would be so gladto die!) I would bless him and uncle with my last words, and pray forhis happy home with my last breath!’

Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It wasuntouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way.Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply, which,although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and made itdifficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference to herplace of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had writtenfrom that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

‘What answer was sent?’ I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.‘Missis Gummidge,’ he returned, ‘not being a good scholar, sir,

Ham kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told herI was gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.’

‘Is that another letter in your hand?’ said I.‘It’s money, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. ‘Ten

pound, you see. And wrote inside, “From a true friend,” like the fust.

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But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post,day afore yesterday. I’m a-going to seek her at the post-mark.’

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He hadfound out, at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country,and they had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could verywell understand. He laid it between us on the table; and, with his chinresting on one hand, tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.‘He works,’ he said, ‘as bold as a man can. His name’s as good, in

all that part, as any man’s is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone’s handis ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them.He’s never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister’s belief is (‘twixtourselves) as it has cut him deep.’

‘Poor fellow, I can believe it!’‘He ain’t no care, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn whis-

per—’kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man’s wanted forrough sarvice in rough weather, he’s theer. When there’s hard duty tobe done with danger in it, he steps for’ard afore all his mates. And yethe’s as gentle as any child. There ain’t a child in Yarmouth that doen’tknow him.’

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with hishand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in hisbreast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snowdrifting in; but nothing else was there.

‘Well!’ he said, looking to his bag, ‘having seen you tonight, Mas’rDavy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrowmorning. You have seen what I’ve got heer’; putting his hand onwhere the little packet lay; ‘all that troubles me is, to think that anyharm might come to me, afore that money was give back. IfI was to die, and it was lost, or stole, or elseways made away with,and it was never know’d by him but what I’d took it, I believe thet’other wureld wouldn’t hold me! I believe I must come back!’

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again,before going out.

‘I’d go ten thousand mile,’ he said, ‘I’d go till I dropped dead, tolay that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em’ly, I’mcontent. If I doen’t find her, maybe she’ll come to hear, sometime, as

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her loving uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life;and if I know her, even that will turn her home at last!’

As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flitaway before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held himin conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller’s house on the Dover Road, where he knewhe could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with himover Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore.Everything seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverencefor him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance ofthe face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snowhad covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to beseen; and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I lookedback over my shoulder.

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CHAPTER 41DORA’S AUNTS

AT LAST, AN ANSWER came from the two old ladies. They presentedtheir compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that theyhad given his letter their best consideration, ‘with a view to the hap-piness of both parties’—which I thought rather an alarming expres-sion, not only because of the use they had made of it in relation tothe family difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and haveall my life) observed that conventional phrases are a sort of fireworks,easily let off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and coloursnot at all suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow addedthat they begged to forbear expressing, ‘through the medium of cor-respondence’, an opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield’s com-munication; but that if Mr. Copperfield would do them the favourto call, upon a certain day (accompanied, if he thought proper, by aconfidential friend), they would be happy to hold some conversa-tion on the subject.

To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his re-spectful compliments, that he would have the honour of waiting onthe Misses Spenlow, at the time appointed; accompanied, in accor-dance with their kind permission, by his friend Mr. Thomas Traddlesof the Inner Temple. Having dispatched which missive, Mr.Copperfield fell into a condition of strong nervous agitation; and soremained until the day arrived.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved, atthis eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of Miss Mills. ButMr. Mills, who was always doing something or other to annoy me—or I felt as if he were, which was the same thing—had brought hisconduct to a climax, by taking it into his head that he would go to

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India. Why should he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure hehad nothing to do with any other part of the world, and had a gooddeal to do with that part; being entirely in the India trade, whateverthat was (I had floating dreams myself concerning golden shawls andelephants’ teeth); having been at Calcutta in his youth; and designingnow to go out there again, in the capacity of resident partner. But thiswas nothing to me. However, it was so much to him that for India hewas bound, and Julia with him; and Julia went into the country to takeleave of her relations; and the house was put into a perfect suit of bills,announcing that it was to be let or sold, and that the furniture (Mangleand all) was to be taken at a valuation. So, here was another earthquakeof which I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock ofits predecessor!

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day;being divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and myapprehensions of putting on anything that might impair my severelypractical character in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I endeavouredto hit a happy medium between these two extremes; my aunt ap-proved the result; and Mr. Dick threw one of his shoes after Traddlesand me, for luck, as we went downstairs.

Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached tohim as I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion, thathe had never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very up-right. It gave him a surprised look—not to say a hearth-broomykind of expression—which, my apprehensions whispered, might befatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walkingto Putney; and saying that if he would smooth it down a little—

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, lifting off his hat, and rub-bing his hair all kinds of ways, ‘nothing would give me greater plea-sure. But it won’t.’

‘Won’t be smoothed down?’ said I.‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry a

half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney, it would be upagain the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea whatobstinate hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful porcupine.’

I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed

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by his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed his good-nature;and said that his hair must have taken all the obstinacy out of hischaracter, for he had none.

‘Oh!’ returned Traddles, laughing. ‘I assure you, it’s quite an oldstory, my unfortunate hair. My uncle’s wife couldn’t bear it. She saidit exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too, when I firstfell in love with Sophy. Very much!’

‘Did she object to it?’‘She didn’t,’ rejoined Traddles; ‘but her eldest si ster—the one that’s

the Beauty—quite made game of it, I understand. In fact, all thesisters laugh at it.’

‘Agreeable!’ said I.‘Yes,’ returned Traddles with perfect innocence, ‘it’s a joke for us.

They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her desk, and is obligedto shut it in a clasped book, to keep it down. We laugh about it.’

‘By the by, my dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘your experience may suggestsomething to me. When you became engaged to the young ladywhom you have just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal toher family? Was there anything like—what we are going throughtoday, for instance?’ I added, nervously.

‘Why,’ replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a thoughtful shadehad stolen, ‘it was rather a painful transaction, Copperfield, in mycase. You see, Sophy being of so much use in the family, none ofthem could endure the thought of her ever being married. Indeed,they had quite settled among themselves that she never was to bemarried, and they called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I men-tioned it, with the greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler—’

‘The mama?’ said I.‘The mama,’ said Traddles—’Reverend Horace Crewler—when I

mentioned it with every possible precaution to Mrs. Crewler, theeffect upon her was such that she gave a scream and became insen-sible. I couldn’t approach the subject again, for months.’

‘You did at last?’ said I.‘Well, the Reverend Horace did,’ said Traddles. ‘He is an excellent

man, most exemplary in every way; and he pointed out to her thatshe ought, as a Christian, to reconcile herself to thesacrifice (especially as it was so uncertain), and to bear no unchari-

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table feeling towards me. As to myself, Copperfield, I give you myword, I felt a perfect bird of prey towards the family.’

‘The sisters took your part, I hope, Traddles?’‘Why, I can’t say they did,’ he returned. ‘When we had compara-

tively reconciled Mrs. Crewler to it, we had to break it to Sarah. Yourecollect my mentioning Sarah, as the one that has something thematter with her spine?’

‘Perfectly!’‘She clenched both her hands,’ said Traddles, looking at me in

dismay; ‘shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became perfectly stiff;and took nothing for two days but toast-and-water, administeredwith a tea-spoon.’

‘What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles!’ I remarked.‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield!’ said Traddles. ‘She is a very

charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In fact, they all have.Sophy told me afterwards, that the self-reproachshe underwent while she was in attendance upon Sarah, no wordscould describe. I know it must have been severe, by my own feelings,Copperfield; which were like a criminal’s. After Sarah was restored,we still had to break it to the other eight; and it produced variouseffects upon them of a most pathetic nature. The two little ones,whom Sophy educates, have only just left off de-testing me.’

‘At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope?’ said I.‘Ye-yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to it,’ said

Traddles, doubtfully. ‘The fact is, we avoid mentioning the subject;and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances are a greatconsolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene, whenever weare married. It will be much more like a funeral, than a wedding.And they’ll all hate me for taking her away!’

His honest face, as he looked at me with a serio-comic shake of hishead, impresses me more in the remembrance than it did in the real-ity, for I was by this time in a state of such excessive trepidation andwandering of mind, as to be quite unable to fix my attention onanything. On our approaching the house where theMisses Spenlow lived, I was at such a discount in respect of my per-sonal looks and presence of mind, that Traddles proposed a gentlestimulant in the form of a glass of ale. This having been administered

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at a neighbouring public-house, he conducted me, with totteringsteps, to the Misses Spenlow’s door.

I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view, when themaid opened it; and of wavering, somehow, across a hall with aweather-glass in it, into a quiet little drawing-room on the ground-floor, commanding a neat garden. Also of sitting down here, on asofa, and seeing Traddles’s hair start up, now his hat was removed,like one of those obtrusive little figures made of springs, that fly outof fictitious snuff-boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing anold-fashioned clock ticking away on the chimney-piece, and tryingto make it keep time to the jerking of my heart,—which it wouldn’t.Also of looking round the room for any sign of Dora, and seeingnone. Also of thinking that Jip once barked in the distance, and wasinstantly choked by somebody. Ultimately I found myself backingTraddles into the fireplace, and bowing in great confusion to two drylittle elderly ladies, dressed in black, and each looking wonderfullylike a preparation in chip or tan of the late Mr. Spenlow.

‘Pray,’ said one of the two little ladies, ‘be seated.’When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat upon some-

thing which was not a cat—my first seat was—I so far recovered mysight, as to perceive that Mr. Spenlow had evidently been the young-est of the family; that there was a disparity of six or eight years be-tween the two sisters; and that the younger appeared to be the man-ager of the conference, inasmuch as she had my letter in her hand—so familiar as it looked to me, and yet so odd!—and was referring toit through an eye-glass. They were dressed alike, but this sister woreher dress with a more youthful air than the other; and perhaps had atrifle more frill, or tucker, or brooch, or bracelet, or some little thingof that kind, which made her look more lively. They were both up-right in their carriage, formal, precise, composed, and quiet. Thesister who had not my letter, had her arms crossed on her breast, andresting on each other, like an Idol.

‘Mr. Copperfield, I believe,’ said the sister who had got my letter,addressing herself to Traddles.

This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate that I wasMr. Copperfield, and I had to lay claim to myself, and they had todivest themselves of a preconceived opinion that Traddles was Mr.

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Copperfield, and altogether we were in a nice condition. To improveit, we all distinctly heard Jip give two short barks, andreceive another choke.

‘Mr. Copperfield!’ said the sister with the letter.I did something—bowed, I suppose—and was all attention, when

the other sister struck in.‘My sister Lavinia,’ said she ‘being conversant with matters of this

nature, will state what we consider most calculated to promote thehappiness of both parties.’

I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an authority in af-fairs of the heart, by reason of there having anciently existed a certainMr. Pidger, who played short whist, and was supposed to have beenenamoured of her. My private opinion is, that this was entirely agratuitous assumption, and that Pidger was altogether innocent ofany such sentiments—to which he had never given any sort of ex-pression that I could ever hear of. Both Miss Laviniaand Miss Clarissa had a superstition, however, that he would havedeclared his passion, if he had not been cut short in his youth (atabout sixty) by over-drinking his constitution, and over-doing anattempt to set it right again by swilling Bath water. They had a lurk-ing suspicion even, that he died of secret love; though I must saythere was a picture of him in the house with a damask nose, whichconcealment did not appear to have ever preyed upon.

‘We will not,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘enter on the past history of thismatter. Our poor brother Francis’s death has cancelled that.’

‘We had not,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘been in the habit of frequentassociation with our brother Francis; but there was no decided divi-sion or disunion between us. Francis took his road; we took ours.We considered it conducive to the happiness of all parties that itshould be so. And it was so.’

Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speak, shook her headafter speaking, and became upright again when silent. Miss Clarissanever moved her arms. She sometimes played tunes upon them withher fingers—minuets and marches I should think—but never movedthem.

‘Our niece’s position, or supposed position, is much changed by ourbrother Francis’s death,’ said Miss Lavinia; ‘and therefore we consider our

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brother’s opinions as regarded her position as being changed too. We haveno reason to doubt, Mr. Copperfield, that you are a young gentlemanpossessed of good qualities and honourable character; or that you have anaffection—or are fully persuaded that you have an affection—for our niece.’

I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that nobody hadever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Traddles came to my assis-tance with a confirmatory murmur.

Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinder, when MissClarissa, who appeared to be incessantly beset by a desire to refer toher brother Francis, struck in again:

‘If Dora’s mama,’ she said, ‘when she married our brother Francis,had at once said that there was not room for the family at the dinner-table, it would have been better for the happiness of all parties.’

‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia. ‘Perhaps we needn’t mind thatnow.’

‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘it belongs to the subject. Withyour branch of the subject, on which alone you are competent tospeak, I should not think of interfering. On this branch of the sub-ject I have a voice and an opinion. It would have been better for thehappiness of all parties, if Dora’s mama, when she married our brotherFrancis, had mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We shouldthen have known what we had to expect. We should have said “Praydo not invite us, at any time”; and all possibility of misunderstand-ing would have been avoided.’

When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia resumed:again referring to my letter through her eye-glass. They both hadlittle bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, which were like birds’eyes. They were not unlike birds, altogether; having a sharp, brisk,sudden manner, and a little short, spruce way of adjustingthemselves, like canaries.

Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed:‘You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, Mr.

Copperfield, to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our niece.’‘If our brother Francis,’ said Miss Clarissa, breaking out again, if I

may call anything so calm a breaking out, ‘wished to surround him-self with an atmosphere of Doctors’ Commons, and of Doctors’Commons only, what right or desire had we to object? None, I am

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sure. We have ever been far from wishing to obtrude ourselves onanyone. But why not say so? Let our brother Francis and his wifehave their society. Let my sister Lavinia and myself have our society.We can find it for ourselves, I hope.’

As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and me, both Traddlesand I made some sort of reply. Traddles was inaudible. I think Iobserved, myself, that it was highly creditable to all concerned. Idon’t in the least know what I meant.

‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved her mind,‘you can go on, my dear.’

Miss Lavinia proceeded:‘Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very careful

indeed in considering this letter; and we have not considered it with-out finally showing it to our niece, and discussing it with our niece.We have no doubt that you think you like her very much.’

‘Think, ma’am,’ I rapturously began, ‘oh! -’But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as

requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I begged pardon.‘Affection,’ said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for corrobora-

tion, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every clause, ‘ma-ture affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express itself. Itsvoice is low. It is modest and retiring, it lies in ambush, waits andwaits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away, andfinds it still ripening in the shade.’

Of course I did not understand then that this was an allusion toher supposed experience of the stricken Pidger; but I saw, from thegravity with which Miss Clarissa nodded her head, that great weightwas attached to these words.

‘The light—for I call them, in comparison with such sentiments,the light—inclinations of very young people,’ pursued Miss Lavinia,‘are dust, compared to rocks. It is owing to the difficulty of knowingwhether they are likely to endure or have any real foundation, thatmy sister Clarissa and myself have been very undecided how to act,Mr. Copperfield, and Mr.—’

‘Traddles,’ said my friend, finding himself looked at.‘I beg pardon. Of the Inner Temple, I believe?’ said Miss Clarissa,

again glancing at my letter.

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Traddles said ‘Exactly so,’ and became pretty red in the face.Now, although I had not received any express encouragement as

yet, I fancied that I saw in the two little sisters, and particularly inMiss Lavinia, an intensified enjoyment of this new and fruitful sub-ject of domestic interest, a settling down to make the most of it, adisposition to pet it, in which there was a good bright ray of hope. Ithought I perceived that Miss Lavinia would have uncommon satis-faction in superintending two young lovers, like Dora and me; andthat Miss Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction in seeing hersuperintend us, and in chiming in with her own particular depart-ment of the subject whenever that impulse was strong upon her.This gave me courage to protest most vehemently that I loved Dorabetter than I could tell, or anyone believe; that all my friends knewhow I loved her; that my aunt, Agnes, Traddles, everyone who knewme, knew how I loved her, and how earnest my love had made me.For the truth of this, I appealed to Traddles. And Traddles, firing upas if he were plunging into a Parliamentary Debate, really did comeout nobly: confirming me in good round terms, and in a plain sen-sible practical manner, that evidently made a favourable impression.

‘I speak, if I may presume to say so, as one who has some littleexperience of such things,’ said Traddles, ‘being myself engaged to ayoung lady—one of ten, down in Devonshire—and seeing no prob-ability, at present, of our engagement coming to a termination.’

‘You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Traddles,’ ob-served Miss Lavinia, evidently taking a new interest in him, ‘of theaffection that is modest and retiring; that waits and waits?’

‘Entirely, ma’am,’ said Traddles.Miss Clarissa looked at Miss Lavinia, and shook her head gravely.

Miss Lavinia looked consciously at Miss Clarissa, and heaved a littlesigh. ‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘take my smelling-bottle.’

Miss Lavinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromatic vin-egar—Traddles and I looking on with great solicitude the while; andthen went on to say, rather faintly:

‘My sister and myself have been in great doubt, Mr. Traddles, whatcourse we ought to take in reference to the likings, or imaginarylikings, of such very young people as your friend Mr. Copperfieldand our niece.’

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‘Our brother Francis’s child,’ remarked Miss Clarissa. ‘If our brotherFrancis’s wife had found it convenient in her lifetime (though shehad an unquestionable right to act as she thought best) to invite thefamily to her dinner-table, we might have known our brother Francis’schild better at the present moment. Sister Lavinia, proceed.’

Miss Lavinia turned my letter, so as to bring the superscriptiontowards herself, and referred through her eye-glass to some orderly-looking notes she had made on that part of it.

‘It seems to us,’ said she, ‘prudent, Mr. Traddles, to bring thesefeelings to the test of our own observation. At present we knownothing of them, and are not in a situation to judge how muchreality there may be in them. Therefore we are inclined so far toaccede to Mr. Copperfield’s proposal, as to admit his visits here.’

‘I shall never, dear ladies,’ I exclaimed, relieved of an immense loadof apprehension, ‘forget your kindness!’

‘But,’ pursued Miss Lavinia,—’but, we would prefer to regard thosevisits, Mr. Traddles, as made, at present, to us. We must guard our-selves from recognizing any positive engagement between Mr.Copperfield and our niece, until we have had an opportunity—’

‘Until you have had an opportunity, sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa.‘Be it so,’ assented Miss Lavinia, with a sigh—’until I have had an

opportunity of observing them.’‘Copperfield,’ said Traddles, turning to me, ‘you feel, I am sure,

that nothing could be more reasonable or considerate.’‘Nothing!’ cried I. ‘I am deeply sensible of it.’‘In this position of affairs,’ said Miss Lavinia, again referring to her

notes, ‘and admitting his visits on this understanding only, we mustrequire from Mr. Copperfield a distinct assurance, on his word ofhonour, that no communication of any kind shall take place be-tween him and our niece without our knowledge. That no projectwhatever shall be entertained with regard to our niece, without beingfirst submitted to us—’

‘To you, sister Lavinia,’ Miss Clarissa interposed.‘Be it so, Clarissa!’ assented Miss Lavinia resignedly—’to me—

and receiving our concurrence. We must make this a most expressand serious stipulation, not to be broken on any account. We wishedMr. Copperfield to be accompanied by some confidential friend to-

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day,’ with an inclination of her head towards Traddles, who bowed,‘in order that there might be no doubt or misconception on thissubject. If Mr. Copperfield, or if you, Mr. Traddles, feel the leastscruple, in giving this promise, I beg you to take time to consider it.’

I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervour, that not a moment’sconsideration could be necessary. I bound myself by the requiredpromise, in a most impassioned manner; called uponTraddles to witness it; and denounced myself as the most atrociousof characters if I ever swerved from it in the least degree.

‘Stay!’ said Miss Lavinia, holding up her hand; ‘we resolved, be-fore we had the pleasure of receiving you two gentlemen, to leaveyou alone for a quarter of an hour, to consider this point. You willallow us to retire.’

It was in vain for me to say that no consideration was necessary.They persisted in withdrawing for the specified time. Accordingly,these little birds hopped out with great dignity; leaving me to receivethe congratulations of Traddles, and to feel as if I were translated toregions of exquisite happiness. Exactly at the expiration of the quarterof an hour, they reappeared with no less dignity than they had disap-peared. They had gone rustling away as if their little dresses were madeof autumn-leaves: and they came rustling back, in like manner.

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘the rest is with you.’Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the notes

and glanced at them.‘We shall be happy,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘to see Mr. Copperfield to

dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour is three.’I bowed.‘In the course of the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘we shall be happy

to see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.’I bowed again.‘Twice in the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘but, as a rule, not oftener.’I bowed again.‘Miss Trotwood,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘mentioned in Mr.

Copperfield’s letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is betterfor the happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive visits, and re-turn them. When it is better for the happiness of all parties that no

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visiting should take place, (as in the case of our brother Francis, andhis establishment) that is quite different.’

I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to maketheir acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of theirgetting on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now closed,I expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and, tak-ing the hand, first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia, pressedit, in each case, to my lips.

Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us fora minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in a tremble, andwas conducted into another room. There I found my blessed darlingstopping her ears behind the door, with her dear little face against thewall; and Jip in the plate-warmer with his head tied up in a towel.

Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbedand cried at first, and wouldn’t come out from behind the door!How fond we were of one another, when she did come out at last;and what a state of bliss I was in, when we took Jip out of the plate-warmer, and restored him to the light, sneezing very much, and wereall three reunited!

‘My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!’‘Oh, don’t!’ pleaded Dora. ‘Please!’‘Are you not my own for ever, Dora?’‘Oh yes, of course I am!’ cried Dora, ‘but I am so frightened!’‘Frightened, my own?’‘Oh yes! I don’t like him,’ said Dora. ‘Why don’t he go?’‘Who, my life?’‘Your friend,’ said Dora. ‘It isn’t any business of his. What a stupid

he must be!’‘My love!’ (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways.)

‘He is the best creature!’‘Oh, but we don’t want any best creatures!’ pouted Dora.‘My dear,’ I argued, ‘you will soon know him well, and like him

of all things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you’ll like her ofall things too, when you know her.’

‘No, please don’t bring her!’ said Dora, giving me a horrified littlekiss, and folding her hands. ‘Don’t. I know she’s a naughty, mischief-making old thing! Don’t let her come here, Doady!’ which was a

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corruption of David.Remonstrance was of no use, then; so I laughed, and admired, and

was very much in love and very happy; and she showed me Jip’s newtrick of standing on his hind legs in a corner—which he did forabout the space of a flash of lightning, and then fell down—and Idon’t know how long I should have stayed there, oblivious of Traddles,if Miss Lavinia had not come in to take me away. Miss Lavinia wasvery fond of Dora (she told me Dora was exactly like what she hadbeen herself at her age—she must have altered a good deal), and shetreated Dora just as if she had been a toy. I wanted to persuade Dorato come and see Traddles, but on my proposing it she ran off to herown room and locked herself in; so I went to Traddles without her,and walked away with him on air.

‘Nothing could be more satisfactory,’ said Traddles; ‘and they arevery agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I shouldn’t be at all surprised ifyou were to be married years before me, Copperfield.’

‘Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles?’ I inquired,in the pride of my heart.

‘She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters,’said Traddles.

‘Does she sing at all?’ I asked.‘Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the others a little

when they’re out of spirits,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing scientific.’‘She doesn’t sing to the guitar?’ said I.‘Oh dear no!’ said Traddles.‘Paint at all?’‘Not at all,’ said Traddles.I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and see some of

her flower-painting. He said he should like it very much, and we wenthome arm in arm in great good humour and delight. I encouraged himto talk about Sophy, on the way; which he did with a loving reliance onher that I very much admired. I compared her in my mind with Dora,with considerable inward satisfaction; but I candidly admitted to myselfthat she seemed to be an excellent kind of girl for Traddles, too.

Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the suc-cessful issue of the conference, and with all that had been said and donein the course of it. She was happy to see me so happy, and promised to

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call on Dora’s aunts without loss of time. But she took such a longwalk up and down our rooms that night, while I was writing to Agnes,that I began to think she meant to walk till morning.

My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrating all thegood effects that had resulted from my following her advice. Shewrote, by return of post, to me. Her letter was hopeful,earnest, and cheerful. She was always cheerful from that time.

I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily journeys toHighgate considered, Putney was a long way off; and I naturally wantedto go there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinkings being quiteimpracticable, I compounded with Miss Lavinia for permission to visitevery Saturday afternoon, without detriment to my privileged Sun-days. So, the close of every week was a delicious time for me; and I gotthrough the rest of the week by looking forward to it.

I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora’s auntsrubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly than I couldhave expected. My aunt made her promised visit within a few daysof the conference; and within a few more days, Dora’s aunts calledupon her, in due state and form. Similar but more friendlyexchanges took place afterwards, usually at intervals of three or fourweeks. I know that my aunt distressed Dora’s aunts very much, byutterly setting at naught the dignity of fly-conveyance, and walkingout to Putney at extraordinary times, as shortly after breakfast or justbefore tea; likewise by wearing her bonnet in any manner that hap-pened to be comfortable to her head, without at all deferring to theprejudices of civilization on that subject. But Dora’s aunts soon agreedto regard my aunt as an eccentric and somewhat masculine lady, witha strong understanding; and although my aunt occasionally ruffledthe feathers of Dora’s aunts, by expressing heretical opinions on vari-ous points of ceremony, she loved me too well not to sacrifice someof her little peculiarities to the general harmony.

The only member of our small society who positively refused toadapt himself to circumstances, was Jip. He never saw my aunt with-out immediately displaying every tooth in his head, retiring under achair, and growling incessantly: with now and then a doleful howl, asif she really were too much for his feelings. All kinds of treatmentwere tried with him, coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to

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Buckingham Street (where he instantly dashed at the two cats, to theterror of all beholders); but he never could prevail upon himself tobear my aunt’s society. He would sometimes think he had got thebetter of his objection, and be amiable for a few minutes; and thenwould put up his snub nose, and howl to that extent, that there wasnothing for it but to blind him and put him in the plate-warmer. Atlength, Dora regularly muffled him in a towel and shut him up there,whenever my aunt was reported at the door.

One thing troubled me much, after we had fallen into this quiettrain. It was, that Dora seemed by one consent to be regarded like apretty toy or plaything. My aunt, with whom she gradually becamefamiliar, always called her Little Blossom; and the pleasure of MissLavinia’s life was to wait upon her, curl her hair, make ornaments forher, and treat her like a pet child. What Miss Lavinia did, her sisterdid as a matter of course. It was very odd to me; but they all seemedto treat Dora, in her degree, much as Dora treated Jip in his.

I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this; and one daywhen we were out walking (for we were licensed by Miss Lavinia,after a while, to go out walking by ourselves), I said to her that Iwished she could get them to behave towards her differently.

‘Because you know, my darling,’ I remonstrated, ‘you are not achild.’

‘There!’ said Dora. ‘Now you’re going to be cross!’‘Cross, my love?’‘I am sure they’re very kind to me,’ said Dora, ‘and I am very

happy—’‘Well! But my dearest life!’ said I, ‘you might be very happy, and

yet be treated rationally.’Dora gave me a reproachful look—the prettiest look!—and then

began to sob, saying, if I didn’t like her, why had I ever wanted somuch to be engaged to her? And why didn’t I go away, now, if Icouldn’t bear her?

What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how I dotedon her, after that!

‘I am sure I am very affectionate,’ said Dora; ‘you oughtn’t to becruel to me, Doady!’

‘Cruel, my precious love! As if I would—or could—be cruel to

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you, for the world!’‘Then don’t find fault with me,’ said Dora, making a rosebud of

her mouth; ‘and I’ll be good.’I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own accord, to give her

that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to show her how to keepaccounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume with me onmy next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry and moreinviting); and as we strolled about the Common, I showed her an old house-keeping-book of my aunt’s, and gave her a set of tablets, and a pretty littlepencil-case and box of leads, to practise housekeeping with.

But the cookery-book made Dora’s head ache, and the figures madeher cry. They wouldn’t add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, anddrew little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.

Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic matters, aswe walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, for example,when we passed a butcher’s shop, I would say:

‘Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, and you were goingto buy a shoulder of mutton for dinner, would you know how tobuy it?’

My pretty little Dora’s face would fall, and she would make hermouth into a bud again, as if she would very much prefer to shutmine with a kiss.

‘Would you know how to buy it, my darling?’ I would repeat,perhaps, if I were very inflexible.

Dora would think a little, and then reply, perhaps, with great tri-umph:

‘Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, and what need Iknow? Oh, you silly boy!’

So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery-book,what she would do, if we were married, and I were to say I shouldlike a nice Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant tomake it; and then clapped her little hands together across my arm,and laughed in such a charming manner that she was more delightfulthan ever.

Consequently, the principal use to which the cookery-book wasdevoted, was being put down in the corner for Jip to stand upon.But Dora was so pleased, when she had trained him to stand upon it

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without offering to come off, and at the same time to hold the pen-cil-case in his mouth, that I was very glad I had bought it.

And we fell back on the guitar-case, and the flower-painting, andthe songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta ra la! and were as happyas the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture to hint toMiss Lavinia, that she treated the darling of my heart a little toomuch like a plaything; and I sometimes awoke, as it were, wonder-ing to find that I had fallen into the general fault, and treated her likea plaything too—but not often.

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CHAPTER 42MISCHIEF

I FEEL AS IF IT WERE not for me to record, even though this manuscriptis intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremen-dous short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my senseof responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what Ihave already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, andof a patient and continuous energy which then began to be maturedwithin me, and which I know to be the strong part of my character,if it have any strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find thesource of my success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters;many men have worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well;but I never could have done what I have done, without the habits ofpunctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concen-trate myself on one object at a time, no matter how quickly its successorshould come upon its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I writethis, in no spirit of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, asI do mine, in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been agood man indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness ofmany talents neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic andperverted feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating him.I do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. Mymeaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have triedwith all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, Ihave devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, Ihave always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possiblethat any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the com-panionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gainits end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on this earth. Some

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happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the two sidesof the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that laddermust be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no substitutefor thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness. Never to put onehand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and never toaffect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now, to havebeen my golden rules.

How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept, I owe toAgnes, I will not repeat here. My narrative proceeds to Agnes, with athankful love.

She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor’s. Mr. Wickfieldwas the Doctor’s old friend, and the Doctor wished to talk withhim, and do him good. It had been matter of conversation withAgnes when she was last in town, and this visit was the result. Sheand her father came together. I was not much surprised to hearfrom her that she had engaged to find a lodging in the neighbourhoodfor Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic complaint required change of air,and who would be charmed to have it in such company. Neither wasI surprised when, on the very next day, Uriah, like a dutiful son,brought his worthy mother to take possession.

‘You see, Master Copperfield,’ said he, as he forced himself uponmy company for a turn in the Doctor’s garden, ‘where a person loves,a person is a little jealous—leastways, anxious to keep an eye on thebeloved one.’

‘Of whom are you jealous, now?’ said I.‘Thanks to you, Master Copperfield,’ he returned, ‘of no one in

particular just at present—no male person, at least.’‘Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?’He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyes, and

laughed.‘Really, Master Copperfield,’ he said, ‘—I should say Mister, but I

know you’ll excuse the abit I’ve got into—you’re so insinuating, thatyou draw me like a corkscrew! Well, I don’t mind telling you,’ put-ting his fish-like hand on mine, ‘I’m not a lady’s man in general, sir,and I never was, with Mrs. Strong.’

His eyes looked green now, as they watched mine with a rascallycunning.

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‘What do you mean?’ said I.‘Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, with

a dry grin, ‘I mean, just at present, what I say.’‘And what do you mean by your look?’ I retorted, quietly.‘By my look? Dear me, Copperfield, that’s sharp practice! What

do I mean by my look?’‘Yes,’ said I. ‘By your look.’He seemed very much amused, and laughed as heartily as it was in

his nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his hand, hewent on to say, with his eyes cast downward—still scraping, very slowly:

‘When I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down uponme. She was for ever having my Agnes backwards and forwards ather ouse, and she was for ever being a friend to you, MasterCopperfield; but I was too far beneath her, myself, to be noticed.’

‘Well?’ said I; ‘suppose you were!’‘—And beneath him too,’ pursued Uriah, very distinctly, and in a

meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape his chin.‘Don’t you know the Doctor better,’ said I, ‘than to suppose him

conscious of your existence, when you were not before him?’He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again, and he

made his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater convenience of scrap-ing, as he answered:

‘Oh dear, I am not referring to the Doctor! Oh no, poor man! Imean Mr. Maldon!’

My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and apprehen-sions on that subject, all the Doctor’s happiness and peace, all themingled possibilities of innocence and compromise, that I could notunravel, I saw, in a moment, at the mercy of this fellow’s twisting.

‘He never could come into the office, without ordering and shov-ing me about,’ said Uriah. ‘One of your fine gentlemen he was! I wasvery meek and umble—and I am. But I didn’t like that sort of thing—and I don’t!’

He left off scraping his chin, and sucked in his cheeks until theyseemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance upon me all thewhile.

‘She is one of your lovely women, she is,’ he pursued, when he hadslowly restored his face to its natural form; ‘and ready to be no friend

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to such as me, I know. She’s just the person as would put my Agnesup to higher sort of game. Now, I ain’t one of your lady’s men,Master Copperfield; but I’ve had eyes in my ed, a pretty long timeback. We umble ones have got eyes, mostly speaking—and we lookout of ‘em.’

I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted, but, I saw in hisface, with poor success.

‘Now, I’m not a-going to let myself be run down, Copperfield,’ he contin-ued, raising that part of his countenance, where his red eyebrows would havebeen if he had had any, with malignant triumph, ‘and I shall do what I can toput a stop to this friendship. I don’t approve of it. I don’t mind acknowledgingto you that I’ve got rather a grudging disposition, and want to keep off allintruders. I ain’t a-going, if I know it, to run the risk of being plotted against.’

‘You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the belief thateverybody else is doing the like, I think,’ said I.

‘Perhaps so, Master Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve got a mo-tive, as my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it tooth and nail. Imustn’t be put upon, as a numble person, too much. I can’t allowpeople in my way. Really they must come out of the cart, MasterCopperfield!’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said I.‘Don’t you, though?’ he returned, with one of his jerks. ‘I’m as-

tonished at that, Master Copperfield, you being usually so quick!I’ll try to be plainer, another time.—Is that Mr. Maldona-norseback, ringing at the gate, sir?’

‘It looks like him,’ I replied, as carelessly as I could.Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great knobs of

knees, and doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silentlaughter. Not a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by hisodious behaviour, particularly by this concluding instance, that I turnedaway without any ceremony; and left him doubled up in the middleof the garden, like a scarecrow in want of support.

It was not on that evening; but, as I well remember, on the nextevening but one, which was a Sunday; that I took Agnes to see Dora.I had arranged the visit, beforehand, with Miss Lavinia; and Agneswas expected to tea.

I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear little be-

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trothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the way to Putney,Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and I outside, I pictured Dora tomyself in every one of the pretty looks I knew so well; now makingup my mind that I should like her to look exactly as she looked atsuch a time, and then doubting whether I should not prefer her look-ing as she looked at such another time; and almost worrying myselfinto a fever about it.

I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in any case;but it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was not inthe drawing-room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts, butwas shyly keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for her, now;and sure enough I found her stopping her ears again, behind the samedull old door.

At first she wouldn’t come at all; and then she pleaded for fiveminutes by my watch. When at length she put her arm throughmine, to be taken to the drawing-room, her charming little face wasflushed, and had never been so pretty. But, when we went into theroom, and it turned pale, she was ten thousand times prettier yet.

Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was‘too clever’. But when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and soearnest, and so thoughtful, and so good, she gave a faint little cry ofpleased surprise, and just put her affectionate arms round Agnes’s neck,and laid her innocent cheek against her face.

I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw thosetwo sit down together, side by side. As when I saw my little darlinglooking up so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I saw thetender, beautiful regard which Agnes cast upon her.

Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook, in their way, of my joy. Itwas the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss Clarissa presided. I cutand handed the sweet seed-cake—the little sisters had a bird-like fond-ness for picking up seeds and pecking at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked onwith benignant patronage, as if our happy love were all her work; andwe were perfectly contented with ourselves and one another.

The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her quietinterest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of makingacquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her pleasant way,when Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat by me; her

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modest grace and ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks ofconfidence from Dora; seemed to make our circle quite complete.

‘I am so glad,’ said Dora, after tea, ‘that you like me. I didn’t think youwould; and I want, more than ever, to be liked, now Julia Mills is gone.’

I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had sailed, andDora and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend tosee her; and we had had preserved ginger, and guava, and other delica-cies of that sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills weeping on acamp-stool on the quarter-deck, with a large new diary under herarm, in which the original reflections awakened by the contempla-tion of Ocean were to be recorded under lock and key.

Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromisingcharacter; but Dora corrected that directly.

‘Oh no!’ she said, shaking her curls at me; ‘it was all praise. Hethinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite afraid of it.’

‘My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some peoplewhom he knows,’ said Agnes, with a smile; ‘it is not worth theirhaving.’

‘But please let me have it,’ said Dora, in her coaxing way, ‘if you can!’We made merry about Dora’s wanting to be liked, and Dora said I

was a goose, and she didn’t like me at any rate, and the short eveningflew away on gossamer-wings. The time was at hand when the coachwas to call for us. I was standing alone before the fire, when Doracame stealing softly in, to give me that usual precious little kiss be-fore I went.

‘Don’t you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time ago,Doady,’ said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly, and her littleright hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of mycoat, ‘I might have been more clever perhaps?’

‘My love!’ said I, ‘what nonsense!’‘Do you think it is nonsense?’ returned Dora, without looking at

me. ‘Are you sure it is?’‘Of course I am!’

‘I have forgotten,’ said Dora, still turning the button round and round,‘what relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad boy.’

‘No blood-relation,’ I replied; ‘but we were brought up together,like brother and sister.’

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‘I wonder why you ever fell in love with me?’ said Dora, beginningon another button of my coat.

‘Perhaps because I couldn’t see you, and not love you, Dora!’‘Suppose you had never seen me at all,’ said Dora, going to an-

other button.‘Suppose we had never been born!’ said I, gaily.I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in admiring

silence at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on mycoat, and at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and at thelashes of her downcast eyes, slightly rising as they followed her idlefingers. At length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood ontiptoe to give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious littlekiss—once, twice, three times—and went out of the room.

They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, andDora’s unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was laugh-ingly resolved to put Jip through the whole of his performances, be-fore the coach came. They took some time (not so much on accountof their variety, as Jip’s reluctance), and were still unfinished when itwas heard at the door. There was a hurried but affectionate partingbetween Agnes and herself; and Dora was to write to Agnes (who wasnot to mind her letters being foolish, she said), and Agnes was to writeto Dora; and they had a second parting at the coach door, and a thirdwhen Dora, in spite of the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would comerunning out once more to remind Agnes at the coach window aboutwriting, and to shake her curls at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where wewere to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for theshort walk in the interval, that Agnes might praise Dora to me. Ah!what praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend thepretty creature I had won, with all her artless graces best displayed, tomy most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet with no pre-tence of doing so, of the trust in which I held the orphan child!

Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I loved herthat night. When we had again alighted, and were walking in thestarlight along the quiet road that led to the Doctor’s house, I toldAgnes it was her doing.

‘When you were sitting by her,’ said I, ‘you seemed to be no less

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her guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now, Agnes.’‘A poor angel,’ she returned, ‘but faithful.’The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart, made it

natural to me to say:‘The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else

that ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that I havebegun to hope you are happier at home?’

‘I am happier in myself,’ she said; ‘I am quite cheerful and light-hearted.’

I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was thestars that made it seem so noble.

‘There has been no change at home,’ said Agnes, after a few mo-ments.

‘No fresh reference,’ said I, ‘to—I wouldn’t distress you, Agnes, butI cannot help asking—to what we spoke of, when we parted last?’

‘No, none,’ she answered.‘I have thought so much about it.’‘You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love

and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,’ she added,after a moment; ‘the step you dread my taking, I shall never take.’

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of coolreflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurancefrom her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.

‘And when this visit is over,’ said I,—’for we may not be aloneanother time,—how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, beforeyou come to London again?’

‘Probably a long time,’ she replied; ‘I think it will be best—forpapa’s sake—to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often, forsome time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora’s,and we shall frequently hear of one another that way.’

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor’s cottage.It was growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong’schamber, and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.

‘Do not be troubled,’ she said, giving me her hand, ‘by our mis-fortunes and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in your hap-piness. If you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will ask you for it.God bless you always!’ In her beaming smile, and in these last tones

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of her cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora inher company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars,with a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth.I had engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going outat the gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in theDoctor’s study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my mind, that hehad been working at the Dictionary without my help. With the viewof seeing if this were so, and, in any case, of bidding him good night,if he were yet sitting among his books, I turned back, and goingsoftly across the hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light ofthe shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, withone of his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting onthe Doctor’s table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering hisface with his hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed,was leaning forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor’s arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily ad-vanced a step under that impression, when I met Uriah’s eye, and sawwhat was the matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor madea gesture to detain me, and I remained.

‘At any rate,’ observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly person, ‘wemay keep the door shut. We needn’t make it known to all the town.’

Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had leftopen, and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up hisformer position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zealin his voice and manner, more intolerable—at least to me—than anydemeanour he could have assumed.

‘I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah,‘to point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talkedabout. You didn’t exactly understand me, though?’

I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good oldmaster, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort andencouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had beenhis custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift hisgrey head.

‘As you didn’t understand me, Master Copperfield,’ resumed Uriahin the same officious manner, ‘I may take the liberty of umbly men-

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tioning, being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong’s at-tention to the goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It’s much against the grainwith me, I assure you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything sounpleasant; but really, as it is, we’re all mixing ourselves up withwhat oughtn’t to be. That was what my meaning was, sir, when youdidn’t understand me.’ I wonder now, when I recall his leer, that I didnot collar him, and try to shake the breath out of his body.

‘I dare say I didn’t make myself very clear,’ he went on, ‘nor youneither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a subject awide berth. Hows’ever, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain;and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that—did you speak, sir?’

This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might havetouched any heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah’s.

‘—mentioned to Doctor Strong,’ he proceeded, ‘that anyone maysee that Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is DoctorStrong’s wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come(we being at present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t tobe), when Doctor Strong must be told that this was full as plain toeverybody as the sun, before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr.Maldon made excuses to come back, for nothing else; and that he’salways here, for nothing else. When you come in, sir, I was just put-ting it to my fellow-partner,’ towards whom he turned, ‘to say toDoctor Strong upon his word and honour, whether he’dever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come, Mr. Wickfield, sir!Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir? Come, partner!’

‘For God’s sake, my dear Doctor,’ said Mr. Wickfield again layinghis irresolute hand upon the Doctor’s arm, ‘don’t attach too muchweight to any suspicions I may have entertained.’

‘There!’ cried Uriah, shaking his head. ‘What a melancholy confir-mation: ain’t it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your soul, when Iwas nothing but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I’ve seen him twentytimes, if I’ve seen him once, quite in a taking about it—quite putout, you know (and very proper in him as a father; I’m sure I can’tblame him), to think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up withwhat oughtn’t to be.’

‘My dear Strong,’ said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, ‘my goodfriend, I needn’t tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one

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master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one narrow test.I may have fallen into such doubts as I have had, through this mistake.’

‘You have had doubts, Wickfield,’ said the Doctor, without liftingup his head. ‘You have had doubts.’

‘Speak up, fellow-partner,’ urged Uriah.‘I had, at one time, certainly,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I—God forgive

me—I thought you had.’‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic grief.‘I thought, at one time,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘that you wished to

send Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.’‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor. ‘To give Annie pleasure, by

making some provision for the companion of her childhood. Noth-ing else.’

‘So I found,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I couldn’t doubt it, when youtold me so. But I thought—I implore you to remember the narrowconstruction which has been my besetting sin—that, in a case wherethere was so much disparity in point of years—’

‘That’s the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!’ observedUriah, with fawning and offensive pity.

‘—a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real herrespect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldlyconsiderations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelingsand circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven’ssake remember that!’

‘How kind he puts it!’ said Uriah, shaking his head.‘Always observing her from one point of view,’ said Mr. Wickfield;

‘but by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to con-sider what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape—’

‘No! There’s no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ observed Uriah,‘when it’s got to this.’

‘—that I did,’ said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distract-edly at his partner, ‘that I did doubt her, and think her wanting in herduty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse toAgnes being in such a familiar relation towards her, as to see what Isaw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I saw. I never mentionedthis to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And thoughit is terrible to you to hear,’ said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, ‘if

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you knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compas-sion for me!’

The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out hishand. Mr. Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his headbowed down.

‘I am sure,’ said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like aConger-eel, ‘that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody.But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mention-ing that Copperfield has noticed it too.’

I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer to me!‘Oh! it’s very kind of you, Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, undulating

all over, ‘and we all know what an amiable character yours is; but youknow that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew whatI meant. You know you knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don’t deny it!You deny it with the best intentions; but don’t do it, Copperfield.’

I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for amoment, and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings andremembrances was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked.It was of no use raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would, Icould not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose andwalked twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to wherehis chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and occasionally put-ting his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple honesty that did himmore honour, to my thinking, than any disguise he could have ef-fected, said:

‘I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame.I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and aspersions—I call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in anybody’s inmostmind—of which she never, but for me, could have been the object.’

Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sympathy.‘Of which my Annie,’ said the Doctor, ‘never, but for me, could

have been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I donot feel, tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life—myLife—upon the truth and honour of the dear lady who has been thesubject of this conversation!’

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realiza-

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tion of the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined bypainter, could have said this, with a more impressive and affectingdignity than the plain old Doctor did.

‘But I am not prepared,’ he went on, ‘to deny—perhaps I mayhave been, without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit—that I may have unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappymarriage. I am a man quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannotbut believe that the observation of several people, of different agesand positions, all too plainly tending in one direction (and that sonatural), is better than mine.’

I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignantmanner towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness hemanifested in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almostreverential manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubtof her integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.

‘I married that lady,’ said the Doctor, ‘when she was extremelyyoung. I took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed.So far as it was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. Iknew her father well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could,for the love of all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did herwrong; as I fear I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) ofher gratitude and her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!’

He walked across the room, and came back to the same place;holding the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice,in its earnestness.

‘I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and vicissi-tudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were inyears, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did notshut out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free,and still young and still beautiful, but with her judgement morematured—no, gentlemen—upon my truth!’

His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity andgenerosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other gracecould have imparted to it.

‘My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I havehad uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her greatinjustice.’

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His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

‘Once awakened from my dream—I have been a poor dreamer, inone way or other, all my life—I see how natural it is that she shouldhave some regretful feeling towards her old companion and her equal.That she does regard him with some innocent regret, with someblameless thoughts of what might have been, but for me, is, I fear,too true. Much that I have seen, but not noted, has come back uponme with new meaning, during this last trying hour. But, beyondthis, gentlemen, the dear lady’s name never must be coupled with aword, a breath, of doubt.’

For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a littlewhile he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as before:

‘It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness Ihave occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach;not I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel misconstruction, thateven my friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. Themore retired we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the timecomes—may it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure!—when mydeath shall release her from constraint, I shall close my eyes upon herhonoured face, with unbounded confidence and love; and leave her,with no sorrow then, to happier and brighter days.’

I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and goodness,so adorned by, and so adorning, the perfect simplicity of his manner,brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door, when he added:

‘Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will re-spect it. What we have said tonight is never to be said more. Wickfield,give me an old friend’s arm upstairs!’

Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a wordthey went slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them.

‘Well, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah, meekly turning to me. ‘Thething hasn’t took quite the turn that might have been expected, forthe old Scholar—what an excellent man!—is as blind as a brickbat;but this family’s out of the cart, I think!’

I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as Inever was before, and never have been since.

‘You villain,’ said I, ‘what do you mean by entrapping me into

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your schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal,as if we had been in discussion together?’

As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy exulta-tion of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that he forcedhis confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable, and hadset a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I couldn’t bear it.The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck itwith my open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I hadburnt them.

He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connexion, look-ing at each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me tosee the white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of hischeek, and leave it a deeper red.

‘Copperfield,’ he said at length, in a breathless voice, ‘have youtaken leave of your senses?’

‘I have taken leave of you,’ said I, wresting my hand away. ‘Youdog, I’ll know no more of you.’

‘Won’t you?’ said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put hishand there. ‘Perhaps you won’t be able to help it. Isn’t this ungrateful ofyou, now?’

‘I have shown you often enough,’ said I, ‘that I despise you. I haveshown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread your doingyour worst to all about you? What else do you ever do?’

He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that hadhitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather thinkthat neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but forthe assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter.

There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemedto take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.

‘Copperfield,’ he said, removing his hand from his cheek, ‘you havealways gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr.Wickfield’s.’

‘You may think what you like,’ said I, still in a towering rage. ‘If itis not true, so much the worthier you.’

‘And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!’ he rejoined.I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going

out to bed, when he came between me and the door.

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‘Copperfield,’ he said, ‘there must be two parties to a quarrel. Iwon’t be one.’

‘You may go to the devil!’ said I.‘Don’t say that!’ he replied. ‘I know you’ll be sorry afterwards.

How can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a badspirit? But I forgive you.’

‘You forgive me!’ I repeated disdainfully.‘I do, and you can’t help yourself,’ replied Uriah. ‘To think of your

going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! Butthere can’t be a quarrel without two parties, and I won’t be one. I willbe a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you’vegot to expect.’

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which wasvery slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might notbe disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper;though my passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that Ishould expect from him what I always had expected, and had neveryet been disappointed in, I opened the door upon him, as if he hadbeen a great walnut put there to be cracked, and went out of thehouse. But he slept out of the house too, at his mother’s lodging;and before I had gone many hundred yards, came up with me.

‘You know, Copperfield,’ he said, in my ear (I did not turn myhead), ‘you’re in quite a wrong position’; which I felt to be true, andthat made me chafe the more; ‘you can’t make this a bravething, and you can’t help being forgiven. I don’t intend to mention itto mother, nor to any living soul. I’m determined to forgive you.But I do wonder that you should lift your hand against a person thatyou knew to be so umble!’

I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knewmyself. If he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would havebeen a relief and a justification; but he had put me on a slow fire, onwhich I lay tormented half the night.

In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ring-ing, and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressedme as if nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. Ihad struck him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose.At all events his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which,

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with his hat perched on the top of it, was far from improving hisappearance. I heard that he went to a dentist’s in London on theMonday morning, and had a tooth out. I hope it was a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remainedalone, for a considerable part of every day, during the remainder ofthe visit. Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we re-sumed our usual work. On the day preceding its resumption, theDoctor gave me with his own hands a folded note not sealed. It wasaddressed to myself; and laid an injunction on me, in a few affection-ate words, never to refer to the subject of that evening. I had con-fided it to my aunt, but to no one else. It was not a subject I coulddiscuss with Agnes, and Agnes certainly had not the least suspicion ofwhat had passed.

Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks elapsedbefore I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloudwhen there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder at the gentlecompassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish thatshe should have her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony ofher life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I wouldsee her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. After-wards, I sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full of tears, and goout of the room. Gradually, an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty,and deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of thecottage then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor’shouse, the Doctor became older in appearance, and more grave; butthe sweetness of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, andhis benevolent solicitude for her, if they were capable of any increase,were increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday,when she came to sit in the window while we were at work (whichshe had always done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertainair that I thought very touching), take her forehead between his hands,kiss it, and go hurriedly away, too much moved to remain. I saw herstand where he had left her, like a statue; and then bend down herhead, and clasp her hands, and weep, I cannot say how sorrowfully.

Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak even to me,in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a word.

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The Doctor always had some new project for her participating inamusements away from home, with her mother; and Mrs.Markleham, who was very fond of amusements, and very easily dis-satisfied with anything else, entered into them with great good-will,and was loud in her commendations. But Annie, in a spiritless un-happy way, only went whither she was led, and seemed to have nocare for anything.

I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who musthave walked, at various times, a hundred miles in her uncertainty.What was strangest of all was, that the only real relief which seemedto make its way into the secret region of this domestic unhappiness,made its way there in the person of Mr. Dick.

What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his observationwas, I am as unable to explain, as I dare say he would have been toassist me in the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of myschool days, his veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and thereis a subtlety of perception in real attachment, even when it is bornetowards man by one of the lower animals, which leaves the highestintellect behind. To this mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr.Dick, some bright ray of the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his spare hours,of walking up and down the garden with the Doctor; as he had beenaccustomed to pace up and down The Doctor’s Walk at Canterbury.But matters were no sooner in this state, than he devoted all his sparetime (and got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. Ifhe had never been so happy as when the Doctor read that marvellousperformance, the Dictionary, to him; he was now quite miserableunless the Doctor pulled it out of his pocket, and began. When theDoctor and I were engaged, he now fell into the custom of walkingup and down with Mrs. Strong, and helping her to trim her favouriteflowers, or weed the beds. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words inan hour: but his quiet interest, and his wistful face, found immediateresponse in both their breasts; each knew that the other liked him,and that he loved both; and he became what no one else could be—a link between them.

When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face, walking upand down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard words

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in the Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge watering-potsafter Annie; kneeling down, in very paws of gloves, at patient micro-scopic work among the little leaves; expressing as no philosopher couldhave expressed, in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her friend;showering sympathy, trustfulness, and affection, out of every hole inthe watering-pot; when I think of him never wandering in that bettermind of his to which unhappiness addressed itself, never bringing theunfortunate King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grate-ful service, never diverted from his knowledge that there was some-thing wrong, or from his wish to set it right—I really feel almostashamed of having known that he was not quite in his wits, takingaccount of the utmost I have done with mine.

‘Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is!’ my auntwould proudly remark, when we conversed about it. ‘Dick will dis-tinguish himself yet!’

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. Whilethe visit at the Doctor’s was still in progress, I observed that thepostman brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah Heep,who remained at Highgate until the rest went back, it being a leisuretime; and that these were always directed in a business-like mannerby Mr. Micawber, who now assumed a round legal hand. I was gladto infer, from these slight premises, that Mr. Micawber was doingwell; and consequently was much surprised to receive, about thistime, the following letter from his amiablewife.

‘CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.

‘You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to re-ceive this communication. Still more so, by its contents. Still moreso, by the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg toimpose. But my feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and as Ido not wish to consult my family (already obnoxious to the feelingsof Mr. Micawber), I know no one of whom I can better ask advicethan my friend and former lodger.

‘You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myselfand Mr. Micawber (whom I will never desert), there has always beenpreserved a spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have occa-

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sionally given a bill without consulting me, or he may have misled meas to the period when that obligation would become due. This hasactually happened. But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had no secretsfrom the bosom of affection—I allude to his wife—and has invari-ably, on our retirement to rest, recalled the events of the day.

‘You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what thepoignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that Mr.Micawber is entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His life isa mystery to the partner of his joys and sorrows—I again allude tohis wife—and if I should assure you that beyond knowing that it ispassed from morning to night at the office, I now know less of itthan I do of the man in the south, connected with whose mouth thethoughtless children repeat an idle tale respecting cold plum por-ridge, I should adopt a popular fallacy to express an actual fact.

‘But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He isestranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no pride in histwins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffendingstranger who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary meansof meeting our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing, are ob-tained from him with great difficulty, and even under fearful threatsthat he will Settle himself (the exact expression); and he inexorablyrefuses to give any explanation whatever of this distracting policy.

‘This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will advise me,knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how you think it will bebest to exert them in a dilemma so unwonted, you will add anotherfriendly obligation to the many you have already rendered me. Withloves from the children, and a smile from the happily-unconsciousstranger, I remain, dear Mr. Copperfield,

Your afflicted,

‘EMMA MICAWBER.’

I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber’s experi-ence any other recommendation, than that she should try to reclaimMr. Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would in anycase); but the letter set me thinking about him very much.

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CHAPTER 43ANOTHER RETROSPECT

ONCE AGAIN, LET ME PAUSE upon a memorable period of my life. Letme stand aside, to see the phantoms of those days go by me, accom-panying the shadow of myself, in dim procession.

Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than asummer day and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walkwith Dora is all in bloom, a field of bright gold; and now the unseenheather lies in mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow. Ina breath, the river that flows through our Sunday walks is sparkling inthe summer sun, is ruffled by the winter wind, or thickened withdrifting heaps of ice. Faster than ever river ran towards the sea, it flashes,darkens, and rolls away.

Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like la-dies. The clock ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass hangs in thehall. Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right; but we believe inboth, devoutly.

I have come legally to man’s estate. I have attained the dignity oftwenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust uponone. Let me think what I have achieved.

I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a respect-able income by it. I am in high repute for my accomplishment in allpertaining to the art, and am joined with eleven others in reportingthe debates in Parliament for a Morning Newspaper. Night afternight, I record predictions that never come to pass, professions thatare never fulfilled, explanations that are only meant to mystify. Iwallow in words. Britannia, that unfortunate female, is always be-fore me, like a trussed fowl: skewered through and through withoffice-pens, and bound hand and foot with red tape. I am suffi-

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ciently behind the scenes to know the worth of political life. I amquite an Infidel about it, and shall never be converted.

My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but itis not in Traddles’s way. He is perfectly good-humoured respectinghis failure, and reminds me that he always did consider himself slow.He has occasional employment on the same newspaper, in getting upthe facts of dry subjects, to be written about and embellished bymore fertile minds. He is called to the bar; and with admirable in-dustry and self-denial has scraped another hundred pounds together,to fee a Conveyancer whose chambers he attends. A great deal of veryhot port wine was consumed at his call; and, considering the figure,I should think the Inner Temple must have made a profit by it.

I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear and trem-bling to authorship. I wrote a little something, in secret, and sent itto a magazine, and it was published in the magazine. Since then, Ihave taken heart to write a good many trifling pieces. Now, I amregularly paid for them. Altogether, I am well off, when I tell myincome on the fingers of my left hand, I pass the third finger andtake in the fourth to the middle joint.

We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant littlecottage very near the one I looked at, when my enthusiasm first cameon. My aunt, however (who has sold the house at Dover, to goodadvantage), is not going to remain here, but intends removing herselfto a still more tiny cottage close at hand. What does this portend?My marriage? Yes!

Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and MissClarissa have given their consent; and if ever canary birds were in aflutter, they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged with the superintendenceof my darling’s wardrobe, is constantly cutting out brown-paper cui-rasses, and differing in opinion from a highly respectable young man,with a long bundle, and a yard measure under his arm. A dressmaker,always stabbed in the breast with a needle and thread, boards andlodges in the house; and seems to me, eating, drinking, or sleeping,never to take her thimble off. They make a lay-figure of my dear.They are always sending for her to come and try something on. Wecan’t be happy together for five minutes in the evening, but someintrusive female knocks at the door, and says, ‘Oh, if you please,Miss Dora, would you step upstairs!’

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Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out articlesof furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be better for them tobuy the goods at once, without this ceremony of inspection; for, whenwe go to see a kitchen fender and meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinesehouse for Jip, with little bells on the top, and prefers that. And it takesa long time to accustom Jip to his new residence, after we have boughtit; whenever he goes in or out, he makes all the little bells ring, and ishorribly frightened.

Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work im-mediately. Her department appears to be, to clean everything overand over again. She rubs everything that can be rubbed, until it shines,like her own honest forehead, with perpetual friction. And now it is,that I begin to see her solitary brother passing through the dark streetsat night, and looking, as he goes, among the wandering faces. I neverspeak to him at such an hour. I know too well, as his grave figurepasses onward, what he seeks, and what he dreads.

Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me thisafternoon in the Commons—where I still occasionally attend, forform’s sake, when I have time? The realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am going to take out the licence.

It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplatesit, as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half in awe. There arethe names, in the sweet old visionary connexion, David Copperfieldand Dora Spenlow; and there, in the corner, is that Parental Institu-tion, the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly interested in thevarious transactions of human life, looking down upon our Union;and there is the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing on usin print, and doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.

Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream. Ican’t believe that it is going to be; and yet I can’t believe but thateveryone I pass in the street, must have some kind of perception, thatI am to be married the day after tomorrow. The Surrogate knowsme, when I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me easily, as ifthere were a Masonic understanding between us. Traddles is not at allwanted, but is in attendance as my general backer.

‘I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,’ I say toTraddles, ‘it will be on the same errand for yourself. And I hope itwill be soon.’

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‘Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,’ he re-plies. ‘I hope so too. It’s a satisfaction to know that she’ll wait for meany length of time, and that she really is the dearest girl—’

‘When are you to meet her at the coach?’ I ask.‘At seven,’ says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch—the

very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a water-mill. ‘That is about Miss Wickfield’s time, is it not?’

‘A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.’‘I assure you, my dear boy,’ says Traddles, ‘I am almost as pleased

as if I were going to be married myself, to think that this event iscoming to such a happy termination. And really the great friendshipand consideration of personally associating Sophy with the joyfuloccasion, and inviting her to be a bridesmaid in conjunction withMiss Wickfield, demands my warmest thanks. I am extremely sen-sible of it.’

I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, anddine, and so on; but I don’t believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Dora’s aunts, in due course. She hasthe most agreeable of faces,—not absolutely beautiful, but extraor-dinarily pleasant,—and is one of the most genial,unaffected, frank, engaging creatures I have ever seen. Traddles pre-sents her to us with great pride; and rubs his hands for ten minutesby the clock, with every individual hair upon his head standing ontiptoe, when I congratulate him in a corner on his choice.

I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerfuland beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a greatliking for Traddles, and it is capital to see them meet, and to observethe glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in the world toher acquaintance.

Still I don’t believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are su-premely happy; but I don’t believe it yet. I can’t collect myself. I can’tcheck off my happiness as it takes place. I feel in a misty and un-settled kind of state; as if I had got up very early in the morning aweek or two ago, and had never been to bed since. I can’t make outwhen yesterday was. I seem to have been carrying the licence about,in my pocket, many months.

Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house—our

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house—Dora’s and mine—I am quite unable to regard myself as itsmaster. I seem to be there, by permission of somebody else. I halfexpect the real master to come home presently, and say he is glad tosee me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with everything so brightand new; with the flowers on the carpets looking as if freshly gath-ered, and the green leaves on the paper as if they had just come out;with the spotless muslin curtains, and the blushing rose-colouredfurniture, and Dora’s garden hat with the blue ribbon—do I remem-ber, now, how I loved her in such another hat when I first knewher!—already hanging on its little peg; the guitar-case quite at homeon its heels in a corner; and everybody tumbling over Jip’s pagoda,which is much too big for the establishment. Another happy evening,quite as unreal as all the rest of it, and I steal into the usual roombefore going away. Dora is not there. I suppose they have not donetrying on yet. Miss Lavinia peeps in, and tells me mysteriously thatshe will not be long. She is rather long, notwithstanding; but by andby I hear a rustling at the door, and someone taps.

I say, ‘Come in!’ but someone taps again.I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of bright

eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora’s eyes and face, and MissLavinia has dressed her in tomorrow’s dress, bonnet and all, for meto see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss Lavinia gives a littlescream because I tumble the bonnet, and Dora laughs and cries atonce, because I am so pleased; and I believe it less than ever.

‘Do you think it pretty, Doady?’ says Dora.Pretty! I should rather think I did.‘And are you sure you like me very much?’ says Dora.The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss

Lavinia gives another little scream, and begs me to understand thatDora is only to be looked at, and on no account to be touched. SoDora stands in a delightful state of confusion for a minute or two, tobe admired; and then takes off her bonnet—looking so natural with-out it!—and runs away with it in her hand; and comes dancing downagain in her own familiar dress, and asks Jip if I have got abeautiful little wife, and whether he’ll forgive her for being married,and kneels down to make him stand upon the cookery-book, for thelast time in her single life.

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I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I havehard by; and get up very early in the morning, to ride to the Highgateroad and fetch my aunt.

I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and is amazing. Janet hasdressed her, and is there to look at me. Peggotty is ready to go tochurch, intending to behold the ceremony from the gallery. Mr. Dick,who is to give my darling to me at the altar, has had his hair curled.Traddles, whom I have taken up by appointment at the turnpike, pre-sents a dazzling combination of cream colour and light blue; and bothhe and Mr. Dick have a general effect about them of being all gloves.

No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, andseem to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still, as wedrive along in an open carriage, this fairy marriage is real enough tofill me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate people whohave no part in it, but are sweeping out the shops, and going to theirdaily occupations.

My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop alittle way short of the church, to put down Peggotty, whom we havebrought on the box, she gives it a squeeze, and me a kiss.

‘God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I thinkof poor dear Baby this morning.’

‘So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt.’‘Tut, child!’ says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing cor-

diality to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then giveshis to me, who then gives mine to Traddles, and then we come to thechurch door.

The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power loom in full action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I amtoo far gone for that.

The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arrang-

ing us, like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering,even then, why pew-openers must always be the most disagreeablefemales procurable, and whether there is any religious dread of a di-sastrous infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable toset those vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.

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Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and someother people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me, stronglyflavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning in a deepvoice, and our all being very attentive.

Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being thefirst to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory ofPidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnestaking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent herself as amodel of sternness, with tears rolling down her face; of little Doratrembling very much, and making her responses in faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora’s tremblingless and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the servicebeing got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking at eachother in an April state of smiles and tears, when it is over; of myyoung wife being hysterical in the vestry, and crying for her poorpapa, her dear papa.

Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register allround. Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to signit; of Peggotty’s hugging me in a corner, and telling me she saw myown dear mother married; of its being over, and our going away.

Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with mysweet wife upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pul-pits, monuments, pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in whichthere flutter faint airs of association with my childish church at home,so long ago.

Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are,and what a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry andtalkative in the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that whenshe saw Traddles (whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked forit, she almost fainted, having been convinced that he would contriveto lose it, or to have his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gaily; andof Dora being so fond of Agnes that she will not be separated fromher, but still keeps her hand.

Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty andsubstantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in anyother dream, without the least perception of their flavour; eating anddrinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage, and no more

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believing in the viands than in anything else.Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without hav-

ing an idea of what I want to say, beyond such as may be compre-hended in the full conviction that I haven’t said it. Of our being verysociably and simply happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip’shaving wedding cake, and its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora’s goingaway to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remainingwith us; and our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has madequite a speech at breakfast touching Dora’s aunts, being mightilyamused with herself, but a little proud of it too.

Of Dora’s being ready, and of Miss Lavinia’s hovering about her,loth to lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occu-pation. Of Dora’s making a long series of surpriseddiscoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of little things; and ofeverybody’s running everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to saygood-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a bedof flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the flow-ers, and coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my jeal-ous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), andDora’s saying no, that she must carry him, or else he’ll think shedon’t like him any more, now she is married, and will break hisheart. Of our going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and lookingback, and saying, ‘If I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody,don’t remember it!’ and bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Ofher once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes,and giving Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and farewells.

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it atlast. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love so well!

‘Are you happy now, you foolish boy?’ says Dora, ‘and sure youdon’t repent?’

I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me.They are gone, and I resume the journey of my story.

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CHAPTER 44OUR HOUSEKEEPING

IT WAS A STRANGE CONDITION of things, the honeymoon being over,and the bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting downin my own small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employ-ment, as I may say, in respect of the delicious old occupation ofmaking love.

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there. Itwas so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not tohave any occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have towrite to her, not to be scheming and devising opportunities of beingalone with her. Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up from mywriting, and saw her seated opposite, I would lean back in my chair,and think how queer it was that there we were, alone together as amatter of course—nobody’s business any more—all the romance ofour engagement put away upon a shelf, to rust—no one to please butone another—one another to please, for life.

When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed sostrange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was athome! It was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her comingsoftly down to talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a stupen-dous thing to know for certain that she put her hair in papers. It wasaltogether such an astonishing event to see her do it!

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less aboutkeeping house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, ofcourse. She kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she musthave been Mrs. Crupp’s daughter in disguise, we had such an awfultime of it with Mary Anne.

Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when

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we engaged her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had awritten character, as large as a proclamation; and, according to thisdocument, could do everything of a domestic nature that ever I heardof, and a great many things that I never did hear of. She was a womanin the prime of life; of a severe countenance; and subject (particularlyin the arms) to a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. She had acousin in the Life-Guards, with such long legs that he looked like theafternoon shadow of somebody else. His shell-jacket was as muchtoo little for him as he was too big for the premises. He made thecottage smaller than it need have been, by being so very much out ofproportion to it. Besides which, the walls were not thick, and, when-ever he passed the evening at our house, we always knew of it byhearing one continual growl in the kitchen.

Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore will-ing to believe that she was in a fit when we found her under theboiler; and that the deficient tea-spoons were attributable to thedustman.

But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperi-ence, and were unable to help ourselves. We should have been at hermercy, if she had had any; but she was a remorseless woman, and hadnone. She was the cause of our first little quarrel.

‘My dearest life,’ I said one day to Dora, ‘do you think Mary Annehas any idea of time?’

‘Why, Doady?’ inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from herdrawing.

‘My love, because it’s five, and we were to have dined at four.’Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it

was too fast.‘On the contrary, my love,’ said I, referring to my watch, ‘it’s a few

minutes too slow.’My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet,

and drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but Icouldn’t dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

‘Don’t you think, my dear,’ said I, ‘it would be better for you toremonstrate with Mary Anne?’

‘Oh no, please! I couldn’t, Doady!’ said Dora.‘Why not, my love?’ I gently asked.

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‘Oh, because I am such a little goose,’ said Dora, ‘and she knows I am!’I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment

of any system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.‘Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy’s forehead!’ said Dora, and

still being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil; putting it toher rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my foreheadwith a quaint little mockery of being industrious, that quite delightedme in spite of myself.

‘There’s a good child,’ said Dora, ‘it makes its face so much pret-tier to laugh.’

‘But, my love,’ said I.‘No, no! please!’ cried Dora, with a kiss, ‘don’t be a naughty Blue

Beard! Don’t be serious!’‘my precious wife,’ said I, ‘we must be serious sometimes. Come!

Sit down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There!Now let us talk sensibly. You know, dear’; what a little hand it was tohold, and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see! ‘You know, mylove, it is not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one’sdinner. Now, is it?’

‘N-n-no!’ replied Dora, faintly.‘My love, how you tremble!’‘Because I know you’re going to scold me,’ exclaimed Dora, in a

piteous voice.‘My sweet, I am only going to reason.’‘Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!’ exclaimed Dora, in

despair. ‘I didn’t marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reasonwith such a poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so,you cruel boy!’

I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook hercurls from side to side, and said, ‘You cruel, cruel boy!’ so manytimes, that I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a fewturns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back again.

‘Dora, my darling!’‘No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you

married me, or else you wouldn’t reason with me!’ returned Dora.I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it

gave me courage to be grave.

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‘Now, my own Dora,’ said I, ‘you are very childish, and are talkingnonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to goout yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before, Iwas made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in ahurry; today, I don’t dine at all—and I am afraid to say how long wewaited for breakfast—and then the water didn’t boil. I don’t mean toreproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.’

‘Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!’ criedDora.

‘Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!’‘You said, I wasn’t comfortable!’ cried Dora. ‘I said the housekeep-

ing was not comfortable!’‘It’s exactly the same thing!’ cried Dora. And she evidently thought so,

for she wept most grievously.I took another turn across the room, full of love for my pretty

wife, and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my headagainst the door. I sat down again, and said:

‘I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to learn. Iam only trying to show you, my dear, that you must—you reallymust’ (I was resolved not to give this up)—’accustom yourself tolook after Mary Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourself, and me.’

‘I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches,’ sobbedDora. ‘When you know that the other day, when you said you wouldlike a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and or-dered it, to surprise you.’

‘And it was very kind of you, my own darling,’ said I. ‘I felt it somuch that I wouldn’t on any account have even mentioned that youbought a Salmon—which was too much for two. Or that it cost onepound six—which was more than we can afford.’

‘You enjoyed it very much,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And you said I was aMouse.’

‘And I’ll say so again, my love,’ I returned, ‘a thousand times!’But I had wounded Dora’s soft little heart, and she was not to be

comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, that Ifelt as if I had said I don’t know what to hurt her. I was obliged tohurry away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night such pangs ofremorse as made me miserable. I had the conscience of an assassin,

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and was haunted by a vague sense of enormous wickedness.It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found

my aunt, in our house, sitting up for me.‘Is anything the matter, aunt?’ said I, alarmed.‘Nothing, Trot,’ she replied. ‘Sit down, sit down. Little Blossom

has been rather out of spirits, and I have been keeping her company.That’s all.’

I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and down-cast, as I sat looking at the fire, than I could have supposed possibleso soon after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat thinking,I happened to meet my aunt’s eyes, which were resting on my face.There was an anxious expression in them, but it cleared directly.

‘I assure you, aunt,’ said I, ‘I have been quite unhappy myself allnight, to think of Dora’s being so. But I had no other intention thanto speak to her tenderly and lovingly about our home-affairs.’

My aunt nodded encouragement.‘You must have patience, Trot,’ said she.‘Of course. Heaven knows I don’t mean to be unreasonable, aunt!’‘No, no,’ said my aunt. ‘But Little Blossom is a very tender little

blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her.’I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness towards

my wife; and I was sure that she knew I did.‘Don’t you think, aunt,’ said I, after some further contemplation

of the fire, ‘that you could advise and counsel Dora a little, for ourmutual advantage, now and then?’

‘Trot,’ returned my aunt, with some emotion, ‘no! Don’t ask mesuch a thing.’

Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.‘I look back on my life, child,’ said my aunt, ‘and I think of some

who are in their graves, with whom I might have been on kinderterms. If I judged harshly of other people’s mistakes in marriage, itmay have been because I had bitter reason to judge harshly of myown. Let that pass. I have been a grumpy, frumpy, wayward sort ofa woman, a good many years. I am still, and I always shall be. Butyou and I have done one another some good, Trot,—at all events,you have done me good, my dear; and division must not come be-tween us, at this time of day.’

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‘Division between us!’ cried I.‘Child, child!’ said my aunt, smoothing her dress, ‘how soon it

might come between us, or how unhappy I might make our LittleBlossom, if I meddled in anything, a prophet couldn’t say. I wantour pet to like me, and be as gay as a butterfly. Remember your ownhome, in that second marriage; and never do both me and her theinjury you have hinted at!’

I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right; and I compre-hended the full extent of her generous feeling towards my dear wife.

‘These are early days, Trot,’ she pursued, ‘and Rome was not builtin a day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely for yourself ’; a cloudpassed over her face for a moment, I thought; ‘and you have chosena very pretty and a very affectionate creature. It will be your duty, andit will be your pleasure too—of course I know that; I am not deliv-ering a lecture—to estimate her (as you chose her) by the qualitiesshe has, and not by the qualities she may not have. The latter youmust develop in her, if you can. And if you cannot, child,’ here myaunt rubbed her nose, ‘you must just accustom yourself to do with-out ‘em. But remember, my dear, your future is between you two.No one can assist you; you are to work it out for yourselves. This ismarriage, Trot; and Heaven bless you both, in it, for a pair of babesin the wood as you are!’

My aunt said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a kiss to ratifythe blessing.

‘Now,’ said she, ‘light my little lantern, and see me into my bandboxby the garden path’; for there was a communication between ourcottages in that direction. ‘Give Betsey Trotwood’s love to Blossom,when you come back; and whatever you do, Trot, never dream ofsetting Betsey up as a scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the glass, she’squite grim enough and gaunt enough in her private capacity!’

With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief, with whichshe was accustomed to make a bundle of it on such occasions; and Iescorted her home. As she stood in her garden, holding up her littlelantern to light me back, I thought her observation of me had ananxious air again; but I was too much occupied in pondering onwhat she had said, and too much impressed—for the first time, inreality—by the conviction that Dora and I had indeed to work out

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our future for ourselves, and that no one could assist us, to takemuch notice of it.

Dora came stealing down in her little slippers, to meet me, nowthat I was alone; and cried upon my shoulder, and said I had beenhard-hearted and she had been naughty; and I said much the samething in effect, I believe; and we made it up, and agreed that our firstlittle difference was to be our last, and that we were never to haveanother if we lived a hundred years.

The next domestic trial we went through, was the Ordeal of Ser-vants. Mary Anne’s cousin deserted into our coal-hole, and was broughtout, to our great amazement, by a piquet of his companions in arms,who took him away handcuffed in a procession that covered ourfront-garden with ignominy. This nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne,who went so mildly, on receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until Ifound out about the tea-spoons, and also about the little sums she hadborrowed in my name of the tradespeople without authority. After aninterval of Mrs. Kidgerbury—the oldest inhabitant of Kentish Town,I believe, who went out charing, but was too feeble to execute herconceptions of that art—we found another treasure, who was one ofthe most amiable of women, but who generally made a point of fall-ing either up or down the kitchen stairs with the tray, and almostplunged into the parlour, as into a bath, with the tea-things. The rav-ages committed by this unfortunate, rendering her dismissal necessary,she was succeeded (with intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line ofIncapables; terminating in a young person of genteel appearance, whowent to Greenwich Fair in Dora’s bonnet. After whom I remembernothing but an average equality of failure.

Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us. Ourappearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods to be broughtout immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was full of water. All ourmeat turned out to be tough, and there was hardly any crust to ourloaves. In search of the principle on which joints ought to be roasted,to be roasted enough, and not too much, I myself referred to theCookery Book, and found it there established as the allowance of aquarter of an hour to every pound, and say a quarter over. But theprinciple always failed us by some curious fatality, and we never couldhit any medium between redness and cinders.

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I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these failures we in-curred a far greater expense than if we had achieved a series of tri-umphs. It appeared to me, on looking over the tradesmen’sbooks, as if we might have kept the basement storey paved withbutter, such was the extensive scale of our consumption of that ar-ticle. I don’t know whether the Excise returns of the period may haveexhibited any increase in the demand for pepper; but if our perfor-mances did not affect the market, I should say several families musthave left off using it. And the most wonderful fact of all was, that wenever had anything in the house.

As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and coming in a state ofpenitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose that might have happenedseveral times to anybody. Also the chimney on fire, the parish engine, andperjury on the part of the Beadle. But I apprehend that we were personallyfortunate in engaging a servant with a taste for cordials, who swelled ourrunning account for porter at the public-house by such inexplicable itemsas ‘quartern rum shrub (Mrs. C.)’; ‘Half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs.C.)’; ‘Glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)’—the parentheses always refer-ring to Dora, who was supposed, it appeared on explanation, to have im-bibed the whole of these refreshments.

One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a little dinnerto Traddles. I met him in town, and asked him to walk out with methat afternoon. He readily consenting, I wrote to Dora, saying I wouldbring him home. It was pleasant weather, and on the road we mademy domestic happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was veryfull of it; and said, that, picturing himself with such a home, andSophy waiting and preparing for him, he could think of nothingwanting to complete his bliss.

I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite endof the table, but I certainly could have wished, when we sat down,for a little more room. I did not know how it was, but though therewere only two of us, we were at once always cramped for room, andyet had always room enough to lose everything in. I suspect it mayhave been because nothing had a place of its own, except Jip’s pa-goda, which invariably blocked up the main thoroughfare. On thepresent occasion, Traddles was so hemmed in by the pagoda and theguitar-case, and Dora’s flower-painting, and my writing-table, that I

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had serious doubts of the possibility of his using his knife and fork;but he protested, with his own good-humour, ‘Oceans of room,Copperfield! I assure you, Oceans!’

There was another thing I could have wished, namely, that Jip hadnever been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner. Ibegan to think there was something disorderly in his being there atall, even if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in the saltor the melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think he wasintroduced expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at myold friend, and made short runs at his plate, with such undauntedpertinacity, that he may be said to have engrossed the conversation.

However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, andhow sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favourite, I hintedno objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the skirmishingplates upon the floor; or to the disreputable appearance of the castors,which were all at sixes and sevens, and looked drunk; or to the furtherblockade of Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I couldnot help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplated the boiled legof mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it came to pass thatour joints of meat were of such extraordinary shapes—and whetherour butcher contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into theworld; but I kept my reflections to myself.

‘My love,’ said I to Dora, ‘what have you got in that dish?’I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little

faces at me, as if she wanted to kiss me.‘Oysters, dear,’ said Dora, timidly.‘Was that your thought?’ said I, delighted.‘Ye-yes, Doady,’ said Dora.‘There never was a happier one!’ I exclaimed, laying down the carv-

ing-knife and fork. ‘There is nothing Traddles likes so much!’‘Ye-yes, Doady,’ said Dora, ‘and so I bought a beautiful little barrel

of them, and the man said they were very good. But I—I am afraidthere’s something the matter with them. They don’t seem right.’Here Dora shook her head, and diamonds twinkled in her eyes.

‘They are only opened in both shells,’ said I. ‘Take the top one off,my love.’

‘But it won’t come off!’ said Dora, trying very hard, and looking

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very much distressed.‘Do you know, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, cheerfully examining

the dish, ‘I think it is in consequence—they are capital oysters, but Ithink it is in consequence—of their never having been opened.’

They never had been opened; and we had no oyster-knives—andcouldn’t have used them if we had; so we looked at the oysters andate the mutton. At least we ate as much of it as was done, and madeup with capers. If I had permitted him, I am satisfied that Traddleswould have made a perfect savage of himself, and eaten a plateful ofraw meat, to express enjoyment of the repast; but I would hear of nosuch immolation on the altar of friendship, and we had a course ofbacon instead; there happening, by good fortune, to be cold bacon inthe larder.

My poor little wife was in such affliction when she thought I shouldbe annoyed, and in such a state of joy when she found I was not, thatthe discomfiture I had subdued, very soon vanished, and we passed ahappy evening; Dora sitting with her arm on my chair while Traddlesand I discussed a glass of wine, and taking every opportunity of whis-pering in my ear that it was so good of me not to be a cruel, cross oldboy. By and by she made tea for us; which it was so pretty to see herdo, as if she was busying herself with a set of doll’s tea-things, that Iwas not particular about the quality of the beverage. Then Traddlesand I played a game or two at cribbage; and Dora singing to theguitar the while, it seemed to me as if our courtship and marriagewere a tender dream of mine, and the night when I first listened toher voice were not yet over.

When Traddles went away, and I came back into the parlour fromseeing him out, my wife planted her chair close to mine, and satdown by my side. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said. ‘Will you try to teachme, Doady?’

‘I must teach myself first, Dora,’ said I. ‘I am as bad as you, love.’‘Ah! But you can learn,’ she returned; ‘and you are a clever, clever man!’‘Nonsense, mouse!’ said I.‘I wish,’ resumed my wife, after a long silence, ‘that I could have

gone down into the country for a whole year, and lived with Agnes!’Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and her chin rested on

them, and her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.

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‘Why so?’ I asked.‘I think she might have improved me, and I think I might have

learned from her,’ said Dora.‘All in good time, my love. Agnes has had her father to take

care of for these many years, you should remember. Even whenshe was quite a child, she was the Agnes whom we know,’ said I.

‘Will you call me a name I want you to call me?’ inquired Dora,without moving.

‘What is it?’ I asked with a smile.‘It’s a stupid name,’ she said, shaking her curls for a moment. ‘Child-

wife.’I laughingly asked my child-wife what her fancy was in desiring to

be so called. She answered without moving, otherwise than as thearm I twined about her may have brought her blue eyes nearer to me:

‘I don’t mean, you silly fellow, that you should use the name in-stead of Dora. I only mean that you should think of me that way.When you are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, “it’s onlymy child-wife!” When I am very disappointing, say, “I knew, a longtime ago, that she would make but a child-wife!” When you misswhat I should like to be, and I think can never be, say, “still myfoolish child-wife loves me!” For indeed I do.’

I had not been serious with her; having no idea until now, that shewas serious herself. But her affectionate nature was so happy in what Inow said to her with my whole heart, that her face became a laughingone before her glittering eyes were dry. She was soon my child-wifeindeed; sitting down on the floor outside the Chinese House, ringingall the little bells one after another, to punish Jip for his recent badbehaviour; while Jip lay blinking in the doorway with his head out,even too lazy to be teased.

This appeal of Dora’s made a strong impression on me. I lookback on the time I write of; I invoke the innocent figure that I dearlyloved, to come out from the mists and shadows of the past, and turnits gentle head towards me once again; and I can still declare that thisone little speech was constantly in my memory. I may not have usedit to the best account; I was young and inexperienced; but I neverturned a deaf ear to its artless pleading.

Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to be a won-

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derful housekeeper. Accordingly, she polished the tablets, pointedthe pencil, bought an immense account-book, carefullystitched up with a needle and thread all the leaves of the CookeryBook which Jip had torn, and made quite a desperate little attempt‘to be good’, as she called it. But the figures had the old obstinatepropensity—they would not add up. When she had entered two orthree laborious items in the account-book, Jip would walkover the page, wagging his tail, and smear them all out. Her ownlittle right-hand middle finger got steeped to the very bone in ink;and I think that was the only decided result obtained.

Sometimes, of an evening, when I was at home and at work—forI wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to beknown as a writer—I would lay down my pen, and watch my child-wife trying to be good. First of all, she would bring out the immenseaccount-book, and lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh.Then she would open it at the place where Jip had made it illegiblelast night, and call Jip up, to look at his misdeeds. This would occa-sion a diversion in Jip’s favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps,as a penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down on the table in-stantly, ‘like a lion’—which was one of his tricks, though I cannotsay the likeness was striking—and, if he were in an obedient humour,he would obey. Then she would take up a pen, and begin to write,and find a hair in it. Then she would take up another pen, and beginto write, and find that it spluttered. Then she would take up anotherpen, and begin to write, and say in a lowvoice, ‘Oh, it’s a talking pen, and will disturb Doady!’ And then shewould give it up as a bad job, and put the account-book away, afterpretending to crush the lion with it.

Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would sitdown with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other documents,which looked more like curl-papers than anything else, and endeavourto get some result out of them. After severely comparing one with an-other, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them out, andcounting all the fingers of her left hand over and over again, backwardsand forwards, she would be so vexed and discouraged, and would lookso unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright face clouded—and forme!—and I would go softly to her, and say:

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‘What’s the matter, Dora?’Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, ‘They won’t come right.

They make my head ache so. And they won’t do anything I want!’Then I would say, ‘Now let us try together. Let me show you,

Dora.’Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora

would pay profound attention, perhaps for five minutes; when she wouldbegin to be dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject by curling myhair, or trying the effect of my face with my shirt-collar turned down. IfI tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so scaredand disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that theremembrance of her natural gaiety when I first strayed into her path, andof her being my child-wife, would come reproachfully upon me; and Iwould lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar.

I had a great deal of work to do, and had many anxieties, but thesame considerations made me keep them to myself. I am far fromsure, now, that it was right to do this, but I did it for my child-wife’ssake. I search my breast, and I commit its secrets, if I know them,without any reservation to this paper. The old unhappy loss or wantof something had, I am conscious, some place in my heart; but notto the embitterment of my life. When I walked alone in the fineweather, and thought of the summer days when all the air had beenfilled with my boyish enchantment, I did miss something of therealization of my dreams; but I thought it was a softened glory of thePast, which nothing could have thrown upon the present time. I didfeel, sometimes, for a little while, that I could have wished my wifehad been my counsellor; had had more character and purpose, tosustain me and improve me by; had been endowed with power to fillup the void which somewhere seemed to be about me; but I felt as ifthis were an unearthly consummation of my happiness, that neverhad been meant to be, and never could have been.

I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the softeninginfluence of no other sorrows or experiences than those recorded inthese leaves. If I did any wrong, as I may have done much, I did it inmistaken love, and in my want of wisdom. I write the exact truth. Itwould avail me nothing to extenuate it now.

Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares of our life,

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and had no partner in them. We lived much as before, in reference toour scrambling household arrangements; but I had got used to those,and Dora I was pleased to see was seldom vexed now. She was brightand cheerful in the old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happywith her old trifles.

When the debates were heavy—I mean as to length, not quality,for in the last respect they were not often otherwise—and I wenthome late, Dora would never rest when she heard my footsteps, butwould always come downstairs to meet me. When my evenings wereunoccupied by the pursuit for which I had qualified myself with somuch pains, and I was engaged in writing at home, she would sitquietly near me, however late the hour, and be so mute, that I wouldoften think she had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised myhead, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet attention ofwhich I have already spoken.

‘Oh, what a weary boy!’ said Dora one night, when I met her eyesas I was shutting up my desk.

‘What a weary girl!’ said I. ‘That’s more to the purpose. You mustgo to bed another time, my love. It’s far too late for you.’

‘No, don’t send me to bed!’ pleaded Dora, coming to my side.‘Pray, don’t do that!’

‘Dora!’ To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. ‘Notwell, my dear! not happy!’

‘Yes! quite well, and very happy!’ said Dora. ‘But say you’ll let mestop, and see you write.’

‘Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!’ I replied.‘Are they bright, though?’ returned Dora, laughing. ‘I’m so glad

they’re bright.’‘Little Vanity!’ said I.But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my admira-

tion. I knew that very well, before she told me so.‘If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write!’

said Dora. ‘Do you think them pretty?’‘Very pretty.’‘Then let me always stop and see you write.’‘I am afraid that won’t improve their brightness, Dora.’‘Yes, it will! Because, you clever boy, you’ll not forget me then,

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while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say some-thing very, very silly?—more than usual?’ inquired Dora, peepingover my shoulder into my face.

‘What wonderful thing is that?’ said I.‘Please let me hold the pens,’ said Dora. ‘I want to have something

to do with all those many hours when you are so industrious. May Ihold the pens?’

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yes, brings tearsinto my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly after-wards, she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side.Her triumph in this connexion with my work, and her delight whenI wanted a new pen—which I very often feigned to do—suggestedto me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made apretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dorawas in her glory. The preparations she made for this great work, theaprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keepoff the ink, the time she took, the innumerable stoppages she madeto have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it all, her conviction thather work was incomplete unless she signed her name at the end, andthe way in which she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, andthen, when I praised it, clasp me round the neck, are touching recol-lections to me, simple as they might appear to other men.

She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jinglingabout the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to herslender waist. I seldom found that the places to which they belongedwere locked, or that they were of any use except as a plaything forJip—but Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. Shewas quite satisfied that a good deal was effected by this make-beliefof housekeeping; and was as merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house, for a joke.

So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my aunt thanto me, and often told her of the time when she was afraid she was ‘across old thing’. I never saw my aunt unbend more systematically toanyone. She courted Jip, though Jip never responded; listened, dayafter day, to the guitar, though I am afraid she had no taste for music;never attacked the Incapables, though the temptation must have beensevere; went wonderful distances on foot to purchase, as surprises,

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any trifles that she found out Dora wanted; and never came in by thegarden, and missed her from the room, but she would call out, at thefoot of the stairs, in a voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house:

‘Where’s Little Blossom?’

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CHAPTER 45Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt’s Pre-

dictions

IT WAS SOME TIME NOW, since I had left the Doctor. Living in hisneighbourhood, I saw him frequently; and we all went to his houseon two or three occasions to dinner or tea. The Old Soldier was inpermanent quarters under the Doctor’s roof. She was exactly the sameas ever, and the same immortal butterflies hovered over her cap.

Like some other mothers, whom I have known in the course ofmy life, Mrs. Markleham was far more fond of pleasure than herdaughter was. She required a great deal of amusement, and, like adeep old soldier, pretended, in consulting her own inclinations, to bedevoting herself to her child. The Doctor’s desire that Annie shouldbe entertained, was therefore particularly acceptable to this excellentparent; who expressed unqualified approval of his discretion.

I have no doubt, indeed, that she probed the Doctor’s wound with-out knowing it. Meaning nothing but a certain matured frivolity andselfishness, not always inseparable from full-blown years, I think sheconfirmed him in his fear that he was a constraint upon his youngwife, and that there was no congeniality of feeling between them, byso strongly commending his design of lightening the load of her life.

‘My dear soul,’ she said to him one day when I was present, ‘youknow there is no doubt it would be a little pokey for Annie to bealways shut up here.’

The Doctor nodded his benevolent head. ‘When she comes to hermother’s age,’ said Mrs. Markleham, with a flourish of her fan, ‘thenit’ll be another thing. You might put me into a Jail, with genteelsociety and a rubber, and I should never care to come out. But I am

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not Annie, you know; and Annie is not her mother.’‘Surely, surely,’ said the Doctor.‘You are the best of creatures—no, I beg your pardon!’ for the Doctor

made a gesture of deprecation, ‘I must say before your face, as I alwayssay behind your back, you are the best of creatures; but of course youdon’t—now do you?—enter into the same pursuits and fancies as Annie?’

‘No,’ said the Doctor, in a sorrowful tone.‘No, of course not,’ retorted the Old Soldier. ‘Take your Dictio-

nary, for example. What a useful work a Dictionary is! What a neces-sary work! The meanings of words! Without Doctor Johnson, orsomebody of that sort, we might have been at this present momentcalling an Italian-iron, a bedstead. But we can’t expect a Dictionary—especially when it’s making—to interest Annie, can we?’

The Doctor shook his head.‘And that’s why I so much approve,’ said Mrs. Markleham, tapping

him on the shoulder with her shut-up fan, ‘of your thoughtfulness. Itshows that you don’t expect, as many elderly people do expect, oldheads on young shoulders. You have studied Annie’s character, and youunderstand it. That’s what I find so charming!’

Even the calm and patient face of Doctor Strong expressed some littlesense of pain, I thought, under the infliction of these compliments.

‘Therefore, my dear Doctor,’ said the Old Soldier, giving him sev-eral affectionate taps, ‘you may command me, at all times and sea-sons. Now, do understand that I am entirely at your service. I amready to go with Annie to operas, concerts, exhibitions, all kinds ofplaces; and you shall never find that I am tired. Duty, my dear Doc-tor, before every consideration in the universe!’

She was as good as her word. She was one of those people who canbear a great deal of pleasure, and she never flinched in her persever-ance in the cause. She seldom got hold of the newspaper (which shesettled herself down in the softest chair in the house to read throughan eye-glass, every day, for two hours), but she found out somethingthat she was certain Annie would like to see. It was in vain for Annieto protest that she was weary of such things. Her mother’s remon-strance always was, ‘Now, my dear Annie, I am sure you know bet-ter; and I must tell you, my love, that you are not making a properreturn for the kindness of Doctor Strong.’

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This was usually said in the Doctor’s presence, and appeared to meto constitute Annie’s principal inducement for withdrawing her ob-jections when she made any. But in general she resigned herself to hermother, and went where the Old Soldier would.

It rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied them.Sometimes my aunt and Dora were invited to do so, and acceptedthe invitation. Sometimes Dora only was asked. The time had been,when I should have been uneasy in her going; but reflection on whathad passed that former night in the Doctor’s study, had made a changein my mistrust. I believed that the Doctor was right, and I had noworse suspicions.

My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened to bealone with me, and said she couldn’t make it out; she wished theywere happier; she didn’t think our military friend (so she always calledthe Old Soldier) mended the matter at all. My aunt further expressedher opinion, ‘that if our military friend would cut off those butter-flies, and give ‘em to the chimney-sweepers for May-day, it wouldlook like the beginning of something sensible on her part.’

But her abiding reliance was on Mr. Dick. That man had evi-dently an idea in his head, she said; and if he could only once pen itup into a corner, which was his great difficulty, he would distin-guish himself in some extraordinary manner.

Unconscious of this prediction, Mr. Dick continued to occupyprecisely the same ground in reference to the Doctor and to Mrs.Strong. He seemed neither to advance nor to recede. He appeared tohave settled into his original foundation, like a building; and I mustconfess that my faith in his ever Moving, was not much greater thanif he had been a building.

But one night, when I had been married some months, Mr. Dickput his head into the parlour, where I was writing alone (Dora havinggone out with my aunt to take tea with the two little birds), andsaid, with a significant cough:

‘You couldn’t speak to me without inconveniencing yourself,Trotwood, I am afraid?’

‘Certainly, Mr. Dick,’ said I; ‘come in!’‘Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, laying his finger on the side of his

nose, after he had shaken hands with me. ‘Before I sit down, I wish

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to make an observation. You know your aunt?’‘A little,’ I replied.‘She is the most wonderful woman in the world, sir!’After the delivery of this communication, which he shot out of

himself as if he were loaded with it, Mr. Dick sat down with greatergravity than usual, and looked at me.

‘Now, boy,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘I am going to put a question to you.’‘As many as you please,’ said I.‘What do you consider me, sir?’ asked Mr. Dick, folding his arms.‘A dear old friend,’ said I.‘Thank you, Trotwood,’ returned Mr. Dick, laughing, and reach-

ing across in high glee to shake hands with me. ‘But I mean, boy,’resuming his gravity, ‘what do you consider me in this respect?’ touch-ing his forehead.

I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a word.‘Weak?’ said Mr. Dick.‘Well,’ I replied, dubiously. ‘Rather so.’‘Exactly!’ cried Mr. Dick, who seemed quite enchanted by my re-

ply. ‘That is, Trotwood, when they took some of the trouble out ofyou-know-who’s head, and put it you know where, there was a—’Mr. Dick made his two hands revolve very fast about each other agreat number of times, and then brought them into collision, androlled them over and over one another, to express confusion. ‘Therewas that sort of thing done to me somehow. Eh?’

I nodded at him, and he nodded back again.‘In short, boy,’ said Mr. Dick, dropping his voice to a whisper, ‘I

am simple.’I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped me.‘Yes, I am! She pretends I am not. She won’t hear of it; but I am. I

know I am. If she hadn’t stood my friend, sir, I should have beenshut up, to lead a dismal life these many years. But I’ll provide forher! I never spend the copying money. I put it in a box. I have madea will. I’ll leave it all to her. She shall be rich—noble!’

Mr. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. Hethen folded it up with great care, pressed it smooth between his twohands, put it in his pocket, and seemed to put my aunt away with it.

‘Now you are a scholar, Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘You are a fine

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scholar. You know what a learned man, what a great man, the Doctoris. You know what honour he has always done me. Not proud in hiswisdom. Humble, humble—condescending even to poor Dick, whois simple and knows nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap ofpaper, to the kite, along the string, when it has been in the sky, amongthe larks. The kite has been glad to receive it, sir, and the sky has beenbrighter with it.’

I delighted him by saying, most heartily, that the Doctor was de-serving of our best respect and highest esteem.

‘And his beautiful wife is a star,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘A shining star. Ihave seen her shine, sir. But,’ bringing his chair nearer, and laying onehand upon my knee—’clouds, sir—clouds.’

I answered the solicitude which his face expressed, by conveyingthe same expression into my own, and shaking my head.

‘What clouds?’ said Mr. Dick.He looked so wistfully into my face, and was so anxious to under-

stand, that I took great pains to answer him slowly and distinctly, asI might have entered on an explanation to a child.

‘There is some unfortunate division between them,’ I replied. ‘Someunhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may be inseparable from thediscrepancy in their years. It may have grown up out of almost nothing.’

Mr. Dick, who had told off every sentence with a thoughtful nod,paused when I had done, and sat considering, with his eyes upon myface, and his hand upon my knee.

‘Doctor not angry with her, Trotwood?’ he said, after some time.‘No. Devoted to her.’‘Then, I have got it, boy!’ said Mr. Dick.The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the knee, and

leaned back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted up as high as he couldpossibly lift them, made me think him farther out of his wits thanever. He became as suddenly grave again, and leaning forward as be-fore, said—first respectfully taking out his pocket-handkerchief, as if itreally did represent my aunt:

‘Most wonderful woman in the world, Trotwood. Why has shedone nothing to set things right?’

‘Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference,’ I re-plied.

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‘Fine scholar,’ said Mr. Dick, touching me with his finger. ‘Whyhas he done nothing?’

‘For the same reason,’ I returned.‘Then, I have got it, boy!’ said Mr. Dick. And he stood up before

me, more exultingly than before, nodding his head, and striking him-self repeatedly upon the breast, until one might have supposed thathe had nearly nodded and struck all the breath out of his body.

‘A poor fellow with a craze, sir,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘a simpleton, aweak-minded person—present company, you know!’ striking him-self again, ‘may do what wonderful people may not do. I’ll bringthem together, boy. I’ll try. They’ll not blame me. They’ll not objectto me. They’ll not mind what I do, if it’s wrong. I’m only Mr. Dick.And who minds Dick? Dick’s nobody! Whoo!’ He blew a slight,contemptuous breath, as if he blew himself away.

It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mystery, for weheard the coach stop at the little garden gate, which brought my auntand Dora home.

‘Not a word, boy!’ he pursued in a whisper; ‘leave all the blamewith Dick—simple Dick—mad Dick. I have been thinking, sir, forsome time, that I was getting it, and now I have got it. After whatyou have said to me, I am sure I have got it. All right!’ Not anotherword did Mr. Dick utter on the subject; but he made a very telegraphof himself for the next half-hour (to the great disturbance of myaunt’s mind), to enjoin inviolable secrecy on me.

To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two or threeweeks, though I was sufficiently interested in the result of hisendeavours; descrying a strange gleam of good sense—I say nothingof good feeling, for that he always exhibited—in the conclusion towhich he had come. At last I began to believe, that, in the flighty andunsettled state of his mind, he had either forgotten his intention orabandoned it.

One fair evening, when Dora was not inclined to go out, my auntand I strolled up to the Doctor’s cottage. It was autumn, when therewere no debates to vex the evening air; and I remember how theleaves smelt like our garden at Blunderstone as we trod them underfoot, and how the old, unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on thesighing wind.

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It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong was justcoming out of the garden, where Mr. Dick yet lingered, busy withhis knife, helping the gardener to point some stakes. The Doctor wasengaged with someone in his study; but the visitor would be gonedirectly, Mrs. Strong said, and begged us to remain and see him. Wewent into the drawing-room with her, and sat down by the darken-ing window. There was never any ceremony about the visits of suchold friends and neighbours as we were.

We had not sat here many minutes, when Mrs. Markleham, whousually contrived to be in a fuss about something, came bustling in,with her newspaper in her hand, and said, out of breath, ‘My good-ness gracious, Annie, why didn’t you tell me there was someone inthe Study!’

‘My dear mama,’ she quietly returned, ‘how could I know thatyou desired the information?’

‘Desired the information!’ said Mrs. Markleham, sinking on thesofa. ‘I never had such a turn in all my life!’

‘Have you been to the Study, then, mama?’ asked Annie.‘Been to the Study, my dear!’ she returned emphatically. ‘Indeed I

have! I came upon the amiable creature—if you’ll imagine my feelings,Miss Trotwood and David—in the act of making his will.’

Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.‘In the act, my dear Annie,’ repeated Mrs. Markleham, spreading

the newspaper on her lap like a table-cloth, and patting her handsupon it, ‘of making his last Will and Testament. The foresight andaffection of the dear! I must tell you how it was. I really must, injustice to the darling—for he is nothing less!—tell you howit was. Perhaps you know, Miss Trotwood, that there is never a candlelighted in this house, until one’s eyes are literally falling out of one’shead with being stretched to read the paper. And that there is not achair in this house, in which a paper can be what I call, read, exceptone in the Study. This took me to the Study, where I saw a light. Iopened the door. In company with the dear Doctor were two profes-sional people, evidently connected with the law, and they were allthree standing at the table: the darling Doctor pen in hand. “Thissimply expresses then,” said the Doctor—Annie, my love, attend tothe very words—”this simply expresses then, gentlemen, the confi-

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dence I have in Mrs. Strong, and gives her all unconditionally?” Oneof the professional people replied, “And gives her all uncondition-ally.” Upon that, with the natural feelings of a mother, I said, “GoodGod, I beg your pardon!” fell over the door-step, and came awaythrough the little back passage where the pantry is.’

Mrs. Strong opened the window, and went out into the verandah,where she stood leaning against a pillar.

‘But now isn’t it, Miss Trotwood, isn’t it, David, invigorating,’said Mrs. Markleham, mechanically following her with her eyes, ‘tofind a man at Doctor Strong’s time of life, with the strength of mindto do this kind of thing? It only shows how right I was. I said toAnnie, when Doctor Strong paid a very flattering visit to myself, andmade her the subject of a declaration and an offer, I said, “My dear,there is no doubt whatever, in my opinion, with reference to a suit-able provision for you, that Doctor Strong will do more than hebinds himself to do.”’

Here the bell rang, and we heard the sound of the visitors’ feet asthey went out.

‘It’s all over, no doubt,’ said the Old Soldier, after listening; ‘thedear creature has signed, sealed, and delivered, and his mind’s at rest.Well it may be! What a mind! Annie, my love, I am going to theStudy with my paper, for I am a poor creature without news. MissTrotwood, David, pray come and see the Doctor.’

I was conscious of Mr. Dick’s standing in the shadow of the room,shutting up his knife, when we accompanied her to the Study; andof my aunt’s rubbing her nose violently, by the way, as a mild ventfor her intolerance of our military friend; but who got first into theStudy, or how Mrs. Markleham settled herself in a moment in hereasy-chair, or how my aunt and I came to be left together near thedoor (unless her eyes were quicker than mine, and she held me back),I have forgotten, if I ever knew. But this I know,—that we saw theDoctor before he saw us, sitting at his table, among the folio vol-umes in which he delighted, resting his head calmly on his hand.That, in the same moment, we saw Mrs. Strong glide in, pale andtrembling. That Mr. Dick supported her on his arm. That he laid hisother hand upon the Doctor’s arm, causing him to look up with anabstracted air. That, as the Doctor moved his head, his wife dropped

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down on one knee at his feet, and, with her hands imploringly lifted,fixed upon his face the memorable look I had never forgotten. Thatat this sight Mrs. Markleham dropped the newspaper, and staredmore like a figure-head intended for a ship to be called The Aston-ishment, than anything else I can think of.

The gentleness of the Doctor’s manner and surprise, the dignitythat mingled with the supplicating attitude of his wife, the amiableconcern of Mr. Dick, and the earnestness with which my aunt said toherself, ‘That man mad!’ (triumphantly expressive of the misery fromwhich she had saved him)—I see and hear, rather than remember, asI write about it.

‘Doctor!’ said Mr. Dick. ‘What is it that’s amiss? Look here!’‘Annie!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Not at my feet, my dear!’‘Yes!’ she said. ‘I beg and pray that no one will leave the room! Oh,

my husband and father, break this long silence. Let us both knowwhat it is that has come between us!’

Mrs. Markleham, by this time recovering the power of speech,and seeming to swell with family pride and motherly indignation,here exclaimed, ‘Annie, get up immediately, and don’t disgrace every-body belonging to you by humbling yourself like that, unless youwish to see me go out of my mind on the spot!’

‘Mama!’ returned Annie. ‘Waste no words on me, for my appeal isto my husband, and even you are nothing here.’

‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. ‘Me, nothing! The childhas taken leave of her senses. Please to get me a glass of water!’

I was too attentive to the Doctor and his wife, to give any heed tothis request; and it made no impression on anybody else; so Mrs.Markleham panted, stared, and fanned herself.

‘Annie!’ said the Doctor, tenderly taking her in his hands. ‘My dear! Ifany unavoidable change has come, in the sequence of time, upon ourmarried life, you are not to blame. The fault is mine, and only mine. Thereis no change in my affection, admiration, and respect. I wish to make youhappy. I truly love and honour you. Rise, Annie, pray!’

But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little while, shesank down closer to him, laid her arm across his knee, and droppingher head upon it, said:

‘If I have any friend here, who can speak one word for me, or for my

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husband in this matter; if I have any friend here, who can give a voiceto any suspicion that my heart has sometimes whispered to me; if Ihave any friend here, who honours my husband, or has ever cared forme, and has anything within his knowledge, no matter what it is, thatmay help to mediate between us, I implore that friend to speak!’

There was a profound silence. After a few moments of painfulhesitation, I broke the silence.

‘Mrs. Strong,’ I said, ‘there is something within my knowledge,which I have been earnestly entreated by Doctor Strong to conceal,and have concealed until tonight. But, I believe the time has comewhen it would be mistaken faith and delicacy to conceal it any longer,and when your appeal absolves me from his injunction.’

She turned her face towards me for a moment, and I knew that Iwas right. I could not have resisted its entreaty, if the assurance that itgave me had been less convincing.

‘Our future peace,’ she said, ‘may be in your hands. I trust it con-fidently to your not suppressing anything. I know beforehand thatnothing you, or anyone, can tell me, will show my husband’s nobleheart in any other light than one. Howsoever it may seem to you totouch me, disregard that. I will speak for myself, before him, andbefore God afterwards.’

Thus earnestly besought, I made no reference to the Doctor for hispermission, but, without any other compromise of the truth than alittle softening of the coarseness of Uriah Heep, related plainly whathad passed in that same room that night. The staring of Mrs.Markleham during the whole narration, and the shrill, sharp inter-jections with which she occasionally interrupted it, defy description.

When I had finished, Annie remained, for some few moments,silent, with her head bent down, as I have described. Then, she tookthe Doctor’s hand (he was sitting in the same attitude as when wehad entered the room), and pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. Mr.Dick softly raised her; and she stood, when she began to speak, lean-ing on him, and looking down upon her husband—from whom shenever turned her eyes.

‘All that has ever been in my mind, since I was married,’ she said ina low, submissive, tender voice, ‘I will lay bare before you. I couldnot live and have one reservation, knowing what I know now.’

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‘Nay, Annie,’ said the Doctor, mildly, ‘I have never doubted you,my child. There is no need; indeed there is no need, my dear.’

‘There is great need,’ she answered, in the same way, ‘that I shouldopen my whole heart before the soul of generosity and truth, whom,year by year, and day by day, I have loved and venerated more andmore, as Heaven knows!’

‘Really,’ interrupted Mrs. Markleham, ‘if I have any discretion atall -’

(‘Which you haven’t, you Marplot,’ observed my aunt, in an in-dignant whisper.)

—’I must be permitted to observe that it cannot be requisite toenter into these details.’

‘No one but my husband can judge of that, mama,’ said Anniewithout removing her eyes from his face, ‘and he will hear me. If Isay anything to give you pain, mama, forgive me. I have borne painfirst, often and long, myself.’

‘Upon my word!’ gasped Mrs. Markleham.‘When I was very young,’ said Annie, ‘quite a little child, my first

associations with knowledge of any kind were inseparable from apatient friend and teacher—the friend of my dead father—who wasalways dear to me. I can remember nothing that I know, withoutremembering him. He stored my mind with its first treasures, andstamped his character upon them all. They never could have been, Ithink, as good as they have been to me, if I had taken them from anyother hands.’

‘Makes her mother nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Markleham.‘Not so mama,’ said Annie; ‘but I make him what he was. I must

do that. As I grew up, he occupied the same place still. I was proud ofhis interest: deeply, fondly, gratefully attached to him. I looked up tohim, I can hardly describe how—as a father, as a guide, as one whosepraise was different from all other praise, as one in whom I couldhave trusted and confided, if I had doubted all the world. You know,mama, how young and inexperienced I was, when you presentedhim before me, of a sudden, as a lover.’

‘I have mentioned the fact, fifty times at least, to everybody here!’said Mrs. Markleham.

(‘Then hold your tongue, for the Lord’s sake, and don’t mention

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it any more!’ muttered my aunt.)‘It was so great a change: so great a loss, I felt it, at first,’ said Annie,

still preserving the same look and tone, ‘that I was agitated and dis-tressed. I was but a girl; and when so great a change came in the charac-ter in which I had so long looked up to him, I think I was sorry. Butnothing could have made him what he used to be again; and I wasproud that he should think me so worthy, and we were married.’

‘—At Saint Alphage, Canterbury,’ observed Mrs. Markleham.(‘Confound the woman!’ said my aunt, ‘she won’t be quiet!’)‘I never thought,’ proceeded Annie, with a heightened colour, ‘of

any worldly gain that my husband would bring to me. My youngheart had no room in its homage for any such poor reference. Mama,forgive me when I say that it was you who first presented to mymind the thought that anyone could wrong me, and wrong him, bysuch a cruel suspicion.’

‘Me!’ cried Mrs. Markleham.(‘Ah! You, to be sure!’ observed my aunt, ‘and you can’t fan it away,

my military friend!’)‘It was the first unhappiness of my new life,’ said Annie. ‘It was

the first occasion of every unhappy moment I have known. Thesemoments have been more, of late, than I can count; but not—mygenerous husband!—not for the reason you suppose; for in my heartthere is not a thought, a recollection, or a hope, that any powercould separate from you!’

She raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, and looked as beautifuland true, I thought, as any Spirit. The Doctor looked on her, hence-forth, as steadfastly as she on him.

‘Mama is blameless,’ she went on, ‘of having ever urged you forherself, and she is blameless in intention every way, I am sure,—butwhen I saw how many importunate claims were pressed upon you inmy name; how you were traded on in my name; how generous youwere, and how Mr. Wickfield, who had your welfare very much atheart, resented it; the first sense of my exposure to the mean suspi-cion that my tenderness was bought—and sold to you, of all men onearth—fell upon me like unmerited disgrace, in which I forced youto participate. I cannot tell you what it was—mama cannot imaginewhat it was—to have this dread and trouble always on my mind, yet

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know in my own soul that on my marriage-day I crowned the loveand honour of my life!’

‘A specimen of the thanks one gets,’ cried Mrs. Markleham, intears, ‘for taking care of one’s family! I wish I was a Turk!’

(‘I wish you were, with all my heart—and in your native country!’said my aunt.)

‘It was at that time that mama was most solicitous about my CousinMaldon. I had liked him’: she spoke softly, but without any hesita-tion: ‘very much. We had been little lovers once. If circumstanceshad not happened otherwise, I might have come to persuade myselfthat I really loved him, and might have married him, and been mostwretched. There can be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability ofmind and purpose.’

I pondered on those words, even while I was studiously attendingto what followed, as if they had some particular interest, or somestrange application that I could not divine. ‘There can be no dispar-ity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose’—’no dispar-ity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.’

‘There is nothing,’ said Annie, ‘that we have in common. I havelong found that there is nothing. If I were thankful to my husbandfor no more, instead of for so much, I should be thankful to him forhaving saved me from the first mistaken impulse of my undisci-plined heart.’

She stood quite still, before the Doctor, and spoke with an ear-nestness that thrilled me. Yet her voice was just as quiet as before.

‘When he was waiting to be the object of your munificence, sofreely bestowed for my sake, and when I was unhappy in the merce-nary shape I was made to wear, I thought it would have become himbetter to have worked his own way on. I thought that if I had beenhe, I would have tried to do it, at the cost of almost any hardship.But I thought no worse of him, until the night of his departure forIndia. That night I knew he had a false and thankless heart. I saw adouble meaning, then, in Mr. Wickfield’s scrutiny of me. I perceived,for the first time, the dark suspicion that shadowed my life.’

‘Suspicion, Annie!’ said the Doctor. ‘No, no, no!’‘In your mind there was none, I know, my husband!’ she returned.

‘And when I came to you, that night, to lay down all my load of

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shame and grief, and knew that I had to tell that, underneath yourroof, one of my own kindred, to whom you had been a benefactor,for the love of me, had spoken to me words that should have foundno utterance, even if I had been the weak and mercenary wretch hethought me—my mind revolted from the taint the very tale con-veyed. It died upon my lips, and from that hour till now has neverpassed them.’

Mrs. Markleham, with a short groan, leaned back in her easy-chair;and retired behind her fan, as if she were never coming out any more.

‘I have never, but in your presence, interchanged a word with himfrom that time; then, only when it has been necessary for the avoid-ance of this explanation. Years have passed since he knew, from me,what his situation here was. The kindnesses you have secretly donefor his advancement, and then disclosed to me, for my surprise andpleasure, have been, you will believe, but aggravations of the unhap-piness and burden of my secret.’

She sunk down gently at the Doctor’s feet, though he did his ut-most to prevent her; and said, looking up, tearfully, into his face:

‘Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right or wrong,if this were to be done again, I think I should do just the same. Younever can know what it was to be devoted to you, with those oldassociations; to find that anyone could be so hard as to suppose thatthe truth of my heart was bartered away, and to be surrounded byappearances confirming that belief. I was very young, and had noadviser. Between mama and me, in all relating to you, there was awide division. If I shrunk into myself, hiding the disrespect I hadundergone, it was because I honoured you so much, and so muchwished that you should honour me!’

‘Annie, my pure heart!’ said the Doctor, ‘my dear girl!’‘A little more! a very few words more! I used to think there were so

many whom you might have married, who would not have broughtsuch charge and trouble on you, and who would have made yourhome a worthier home. I used to be afraid that I had better haveremained your pupil, and almost your child. I used to fear that I wasso unsuited to your learning and wisdom. If all this made me shrinkwithin myself (as indeed it did), when I had that to tell, it was stillbecause I honoured you so much, and hoped that you might one day

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honour me.’‘That day has shone this long time, Annie,’ said the Doctor, and

can have but one long night, my dear.’‘Another word! I afterwards meant—steadfastly meant, and pur-

posed to myself—to bear the whole weight of knowing the unwor-thiness of one to whom you had been so good. And now a last word,dearest and best of friends! The cause of the late change in you, whichI have seen with so much pain and sorrow, and have sometimes re-ferred to my old apprehension—at other times to lingering supposi-tions nearer to the truth—has been made clear tonight; and by anaccident I have also come to know, tonight, thefull measure of your noble trust in me, even under that mistake. I donot hope that any love and duty I may render in return, will evermake me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with all this knowl-edge fresh upon me, I can lift my eyes to this dear face, revered as afather’s, loved as a husband’s, sacred to me in my childhood as afriend’s, and solemnly declare that in my lightest thought I have neverwronged you; never wavered in the love and the fidelity I owe you!’

She had her arms around the Doctor’s neck, and he leant his headdown over her, mingling his grey hair with her dark brown tresses.

‘Oh, hold me to your heart, my husband! Never cast me out! Donot think or speak of disparity between us, for there is none, exceptin all my many imperfections. Every succeeding year I have knownthis better, as I have esteemed you more and more. Oh, take me toyour heart, my husband, for my love was founded on a rock, and itendures!’

In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up to Mr. Dick,without at all hurrying herself, and gave him a hug and a soundingkiss. And it was very fortunate, with a view to his credit, that she didso; for I am confident that I detected him at that moment in the actof making preparations to stand on one leg, as an appropriate expres-sion of delight.

‘You are a very remarkable man, Dick!’ said my aunt, with an air ofunqualified approbation; ‘and never pretend to be anything else, forI know better!’

With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nodded to me;and we three stole quietly out of the room, and came away.

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‘That’s a settler for our military friend, at any rate,’ said my aunt,on the way home. ‘I should sleep the better for that, if there wasnothing else to be glad of!’

‘She was quite overcome, I am afraid,’ said Mr. Dick, with greatcommiseration.

‘What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?’ inquired my aunt.‘I don’t think I ever saw a crocodile,’ returned Mr. Dick, mildly.‘There never would have been anything the matter, if it hadn’t

been for that old Animal,’ said my aunt, with strong emphasis. ‘It’svery much to be wished that some mothers would leave their daugh-ters alone after marriage, and not be so violently affectionate. Theyseem to think the only return that can be made them for bringing anunfortunate young woman into the world—God bless my soul, as ifshe asked to be brought, or wanted to come!—is full liberty to worryher out of it again. What are you thinking of, Trot?’

I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was still runningon some of the expressions used. ‘There can be no disparity in mar-riage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.’ ‘The first mistaken im-pulse of an undisciplined heart.’

‘My love was founded on a rock.’ But we were at home; and thetrodden leaves were lying under-foot, and the autumn wind wasblowing.

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CHAPTER 46Intelligence

I MUST HAVE BEEN MARRIED, if I may trust to my imperfect memoryfor dates, about a year or so, when one evening, as I was returningfrom a solitary walk, thinking of the book I was then writing—formy success had steadily increased with my steady application, and Iwas engaged at that time upon my first work of fiction—I camepast Mrs. Steerforth’s house. I had often passed it before, during myresidence in that neighbourhood, though never when I could chooseanother road. Howbeit, it did sometimes happen that it was not easyto find another, without making a long circuit; and so I had passedthat way, upon the whole, pretty often.

I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went by witha quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None ofthe best rooms abutted on the road; and the narrow, heavily-framedold-fashioned windows, never cheerful under any circumstances,looked very dismal, close shut, and with their blinds always drawndown. There was a covered way across a little paved court, to anentrance that was never used; and there was one round staircase win-dow, at odds with all the rest, and the only one unshaded by a blind,which had the same unoccupied blank look. I do not remember thatI ever saw a light in all the house. If I had been a casual passer-by, Ishould have probably supposed that some childless person lay deadin it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge of the place, and hadseen it often in that changeless state, I should have pleased my fancywith many ingenious speculations, I dare say.

As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could notgo by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened a longtrain of meditations. Coming before me, on this particular evening

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that I mention, mingled with the childish recollections and later fan-cies, the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disap-pointments dimly seen and understood, the blending of experienceand imagination, incidental to the occupation with which my thoughtshad been busy, it was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into abrown study as I walked on, and a voice at my side made me start.

It was a woman’s voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs.Steerforth’s little parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue rib-bons in her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself, Isuppose, to the altered character of the house; and wore but one ortwo disconsolate bows of sober brown.

‘If you please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk in, andspeak to Miss Dartle?’

‘Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?’ I inquired.‘Not tonight, sir, but it’s just the same. Miss Dartle saw you pass a

night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircase, and whenI saw you pass again, to ask you to step in and speak to her.’

I turned back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went along,how Mrs. Steerforth was. She said her lady was but poorly, and kepther own room a good deal.

When we arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss Dartle in thegarden, and left to make my presence known to her myself. She wassitting on a seat at one end of a kind of terrace, overlooking the greatcity. It was a sombre evening, with a lurid light in the sky; and as Isaw the prospect scowling in the distance, with here and there somelarger object starting up into the sullen glare, I fancied it was no inaptcompanion to the memory of this fierce woman.

She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to receive me. Ithought her, then, still more colourless and thin than when I hadseen her last; the flashing eyes still brighter, and the scar still plainer.

Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the lastoccasion; and there was an air of disdain about her, which she tookno pains to conceal.

‘I am told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,’ said I, standingnear her, with my hand upon the back of the seat, and declining hergesture of invitation to sit down.

‘If you please,’ said she. ‘Pray has this girl been found?’

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‘No.’‘And yet she has run away!’I saw her thin lips working while she looked at me, as if they were

eager to load her with reproaches.‘Run away?’ I repeated.‘Yes! From him,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘If she is not found, per-

haps she never will be found. She may be dead!’The vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I never saw

expressed in any other face that ever I have seen.‘To wish her dead,’ said I, ‘may be the kindest wish that one of her

own sex could bestow upon her. I am glad that time has softenedyou so much, Miss Dartle.’

She condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me with an-other scornful laugh, said:

‘The friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady arefriends of yours. You are their champion, and assert their rights. Doyou wish to know what is known of her?’

‘Yes,’ said I.She rose with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few steps towards

a wall of holly that was near at hand, dividing the lawn from a kitchen-garden, said, in a louder voice, ‘Come here!’—as if she were callingto some unclean beast.

‘You will restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeancein this place, of course, Mr. Copperfield?’ said she, looking over hershoulder at me with the same expression.

I inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; and shesaid, ‘Come here!’ again; and returned, followed by the respectableMr. Littimer, who, with undiminished respectability, made me abow, and took up his position behind her. The air of wicked grace:of triumph, in which, strange to say, there was yet something femi-nine and alluring: with which she reclined upon the seat between us,and looked at me, was worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.

‘Now,’ said she, imperiously, without glancing at him, and touch-ing the old wound as it throbbed: perhaps, in this instance, withpleasure rather than pain. ‘Tell Mr. Copperfield about the flight.’

‘Mr. James and myself, ma’am—’‘Don’t address yourself to me!’ she interrupted with a frown.

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‘Mr. James and myself, sir—’‘Nor to me, if you please,’ said I.Mr. Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified by a slight

obeisance, that anything that was most agreeable to us was mostagreeable to him; and began again.

‘Mr. James and myself have been abroad with the young woman,ever since she left Yarmouth under Mr. james’s protection. We havebeen in a variety of places, and seen a deal of foreign country. Wehave been in France, Switzerland, Italy, in fact, almost all parts.’

He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing himselfto that; and softly played upon it with his hands, as if he were strik-ing chords upon a dumb piano.

‘Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; andwas more settled, for a length of time, than I have known him to besince I have been in his service. The young woman was very improv-able, and spoke the languages; and wouldn’t have been known forthe same country-person. I noticed that she was much admired wher-ever we went.’

Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal a glance at her, andslightly smile to himself.

‘Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What withher dress; what with the air and sun; what with being made so muchof; what with this, that, and the other; her merits really attractedgeneral notice.’

He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the dis-tant prospect, and she bit her nether lip to stop that busy mouth.

Taking his hands from the seat, and placing one of them withinthe other, as he settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littimer proceeded,with his eyes cast down, and his respectable head a littleadvanced, and a little on one side:

‘The young woman went on in this manner for some time, beingoccasionally low in her spirits, until I think she began to weary Mr.James by giving way to her low spirits and tempers of that kind; andthings were not so comfortable. Mr. James he began to be restlessagain. The more restless he got, the worse she got; and I must say, formyself, that I had a very difficult time of it indeed between the two.Still matters were patched up here, and made good there, over and

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over again; and altogether lasted, I am sure, for a longer time thananybody could have expected.’

Recalling her eyes from the distance, she looked at me again now,with her former air. Mr. Littimer, clearing his throat behind his handwith a respectable short cough, changed legs, and went on:

‘At last, when there had been, upon the whole, a good many wordsand reproaches, Mr. James he set off one morning, from theneighbourhood of Naples, where we had a villa (the young womanbeing very partial to the sea), and, under pretence of coming back ina day or so, left it in charge with me to break it out, that, for thegeneral happiness of all concerned, he was’—here an interruption ofthe short cough—’gone. But Mr. James, I must say, certainly didbehave extremely honourable; for he proposed that the young womanshould marry a very respectable person, who was fully prepared tooverlook the past, and who was, at least, as good as anybody theyoung woman could have aspired to in a regular way: her connexionsbeing very common.’

He changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was convinced thatthe scoundrel spoke of himself, and I saw my conviction reflected inMiss Dartle’s face.

‘This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to doanything to relieve Mr. James from his difficulty, and to restore har-mony between himself and an affectionate parent, who has undergoneso much on his account. Therefore I undertook the commission. Theyoung woman’s violence when she came to, after I broke the fact of hisdeparture, was beyond all expectations. She was quite mad, and had tobe held by force; or, if she couldn’t have got to a knife, or got to the sea,she’d have beaten her head against the marble floor.’

Miss Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of exultation inher face, seemed almost to caress the sounds this fellow had uttered.

‘But when I came to the second part of what had been entrusted to me,’said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands uneasily, ‘which anybody might havesupposed would have been, at all events, appreciated as a kind intention, thenthe young woman came out in her true colours. A more outrageous personI never did see. Her conduct was surprisingly bad. She had no more grati-tude, no more feeling, no more patience, no more reason in her, than a stockor a stone. If I hadn’t been upon my guard, I am convinced she would havehad my blood.’

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‘I think the better of her for it,’ said I, indignantly.Mr. Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, ‘Indeed, sir? But

you’re young!’ and resumed his narrative.‘It was necessary, in short, for a time, to take away everything nigh

her, that she could do herself, or anybody else, an injury with, and toshut her up close. Notwithstanding which, she got out in the night;forced the lattice of a window, that I had nailed up myself; droppedon a vine that was trailed below; and never has been seen or heard of,to my knowledge, since.’

‘She is dead, perhaps,’ said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if shecould have spurned the body of the ruined girl.

‘She may have drowned herself, miss,’ returned Mr. Littimer,catching at an excuse for addressing himself to somebody. ‘It’svery possible. Or, she may have had assistance from the boatmen,and the boatmen’s wives and children. Being given to low com-pany, she was very much in the habit of talking to them on thebeach, Miss Dartle, and sitting by their boats. I have known herdo it, when Mr. James has been away, whole days. Mr. James wasfar from pleased to find out, once, that she had told the childrenshe was a boatman’s daughter, and that in her own country, longago, she had roamed about the beach, like them.’

Oh, Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of hersitting on the far-off shore, among the children like herself when shewas innocent, listening to little voices such as might have called herMother had she been a poor man’s wife; and to the great voice of thesea, with its eternal ‘Never more!’

‘When it was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dartle—’‘Did I tell you not to speak to me?’ she said, with stern contempt.‘You spoke to me, miss,’ he replied. ‘I beg your pardon. But it is

my service to obey.’‘Do your service,’ she returned. ‘Finish your story, and go!’‘When it was clear,’ he said, with infinite respectability and an obe-

dient bow, ‘that she was not to be found, I went to Mr. James, at theplace where it had been agreed that I should write to him, and in-formed him of what had occurred. Words passed between us in conse-quence, and I felt it due to my character to leave him. I could bear, andI have borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he insulted me too far.

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He hurt me. Knowing the unfortunate difference between himselfand his mother, and what her anxiety of mind was likely to be, I tookthe liberty of coming home to England, and relating—’

‘For money which I paid him,’ said Miss Dartle to me.‘Just so, ma’am—and relating what I knew. I am not aware,’ said

Mr. Littimer, after a moment’s reflection, ‘that there is anything else.I am at present out of employment, and should be happy to meetwith a respectable situation.’

Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire if therewere anything that I desired to ask. As there was something whichhad occurred to my mind, I said in reply:

‘I could wish to know from this—creature,’ I could not bringmyself to utter any more conciliatory word, ‘whether they intercepteda letter that was written to her from home, or whether he supposesthat she received it.’

He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground,and the tip of every finger of his right hand delicately poised againstthe tip of every finger of his left.

Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him.‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he said, awakening from his abstraction,

‘but, however submissive to you, I have my position, though a ser-vant. Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, are different people. If Mr.Copperfield wishes to know anything from me, I take the liberty ofreminding Mr. Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I havea character to maintain.’

After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes upon him,and said, ‘You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to yourself,if you choose. What answer do you make?’

‘Sir,’ he rejoined, with an occasional separation and reunion ofthose delicate tips, ‘my answer must be qualified; because, to betrayMr. james’s confidence to his mother, and to betray it to you, are twodifferent actions. It is not probable, I consider, that Mr. James wouldencourage the receipt of letters likely to increase low spirits and un-pleasantness; but further than that, sir, I should wish to avoid going.’

‘Is that all?’ inquired Miss Dartle of me.I indicated that I had nothing more to say. ‘Except,’ I added, as I

saw him moving off, ‘that I understand this fellow’s part in the wicked

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story, and that, as I shall make it known to the honest man who hasbeen her father from her childhood, I would recommend him toavoid going too much into public.’

He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened with hisusual repose of manner.

‘Thank you, sir. But you’ll excuse me if I say, sir, that there areneither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and that people arenot allowed to take the law into their own hands. If they do, it ismore to their own peril, I believe, than to other people’s. Conse-quently speaking, I am not at all afraid of going wherever I maywish, sir.’

With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to Miss Dartle,went away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he hadcome. Miss Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while insilence; her manner being exactly what it was, when she had pro-duced the man.

‘He says besides,’ she observed, with a slow curling of her lip, ‘thathis master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this done, is away togratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is of no interest toyou. Between these two proud persons, mother and son, there is awider breach than before, and little hope of its healing, for they areone at heart, and time makes each more obstinate and imperious.Neither is this of any interest to you; but it introduces what I wish tosay. This devil whom you make an angel of. I mean this low girlwhom he picked out of the tide-mud,’ with her black eyes full uponme, and her passionate finger up, ‘may be alive,—for I believe somecommon things are hard to die. If she is, you will desire to have apearl of such price found and taken care of. We desire that, too; thathe may not by any chance be made her prey again. So far, we areunited in one interest; and that is why I, who would do her anymischief that so coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent foryou to hear what you have heard.’

I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was advancing be-hind me. It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her hand more coldlythan of yore, and with an augmentation of her former stateliness ofmanner, but still, I perceived—and I was touched by it—with anineffaceable remembrance of my old love for her son. She was greatly

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altered. Her fine figure was far less upright, her handsome face wasdeeply marked, and her hair was almost white. But when she satdown on the seat, she was a handsome lady still; and well I knew thebright eye with its lofty look, that had been a light in my very dreamsat school.

‘Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?’‘Yes.’‘And has he heard Littimer himself?’‘Yes; I have told him why you wished it.’‘You are a good girl. I have had some slight correspondence with

your former friend, sir,’ addressing me, ‘but it has not restored hissense of duty or natural obligation. Therefore I have no other objectin this, than what Rosa has mentioned. If, by the course which mayrelieve the mind of the decent man you brought here (for whom Iam sorry—I can say no more), my son may be saved from againfalling into the snares of a designing enemy, well!’

She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her, far away.‘Madam,’ I said respectfully, ‘I understand. I assure you I am in no

danger of putting any strained construction on your motives. But I mustsay, even to you, having known this injured family from childhood, thatif you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly deluded,and would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of water fromyour son’s hand now, you cherish a terrible mistake.’

‘Well, Rosa, well!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about tointerpose, ‘it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I am told?’

I answered that I had been some time married.‘And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but I under-

stand you are beginning to be famous.’‘I have been very fortunate,’ I said, ‘and find my name connected

with some praise.’‘You have no mother?’—in a softened voice.‘No.’‘It is a pity,’ she returned. ‘She would have been proud of you.

Good night!’I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending air, and it

was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her pride couldstill its very pulses, it appeared, and draw the placid veil before her face,

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through which she sat looking straight before her on the far distance.As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could not help observ-

ing how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospect, and how it thick-ened and closed around them. Here and there, some early lamps were seento twinkle in the distant city; and in the eastern quarter of the sky the luridlight still hovered. But, from the greater part of the broad valley inter-posed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, mingling with the darkness,made it seem as if the gathering waters would encompass them. I havereason to remember this, and think of it with awe; for before I lookedupon those two again, a stormy sea had risen to their feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right that itshould be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the following eveningI went into London in quest of him. He was always wandering aboutfrom place to place, with his one object of recovering his niece beforehim; but was more in London than elsewhere. Often andoften, now, had I seen him in the dead of night passing along thestreets, searching, among the few who loitered out of doors at thoseuntimely hours, for what he dreaded to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler’s shop in HungerfordMarket, which I have had occasion to mention more than once, andfrom which he first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither Idirected my walk. On making inquiry for him, I learned from thepeople of the house that he had not gone out yet, and I should findhim in his room upstairs.

He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants.The room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it wasalways kept prepared for her reception, and that he never went outbut he thought it possible he might bring her home. He had notheard my tap at the door, and only raised his eyes when I laid myhand upon his shoulder.

‘Mas’r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit! Sit ye down.You’re kindly welcome, sir!’

‘Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, taking the chair he handed me, ‘don’t expectmuch! I have heard some news.’

‘Of Em’ly!’He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and turned pale, as he

fixed his eyes on mine.

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‘It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.’He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in profound

silence to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of dignity, beautyeven, with which the patient gravity of his face impressed me, when,having gradually removed his eyes from mine, he sat looking down-ward, leaning his forehead on his hand. He offered no interruption,but remained throughout perfectly still. He seemed to pursue herfigure through the narrative, and to let every other shape go by him,as if it were nothing.

When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent. I lookedout of the window for a little while, and occupied myself with the plants.

‘How do you fare to feel about it, Mas’r Davy?’ he inquired atlength.

‘I think that she is living,’ I replied.‘I doen’t know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and in the wildness

of her art—! That there blue water as she used to speak on. Could she havethowt o’ that so many year, because it was to be her grave!’

He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and walked acrossthe little room.

‘And yet,’ he added, ‘Mas’r Davy, I have felt so sure as she wasliving—I have know’d, awake and sleeping, as it was so trew that Ishould find her—I have been so led on by it, and held up by it—thatI doen’t believe I can have been deceived. No! Em’ly’s alive!’

He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his sunburnt faceinto a resolute expression.

‘My niece, Em’ly, is alive, sir!’ he said, steadfastly. ‘I doen’t knowwheer it comes from, or how ’tis, but I am told as she’s alive!’

He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I waited for a fewmoments, until he could give me his undivided attention; and thenproceeded to explain the precaution, that, it had occurred to me lastnight, it would be wise to take.

‘Now, my dear friend—’ I began.‘Thankee, thankee, kind sir,’ he said, grasping my hand in both of his.‘If she should make her way to London, which is likely—for where

could she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what wouldshe wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go home?—’

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‘And she won’t go home,’ he interposed, shaking his head mourn-fully. ‘If she had left of her own accord, she might; not as It was, sir.’

‘If she should come here,’ said I, ‘I believe there is one person,here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do youremember—hear what I say, with fortitude—think of your greatobject!—do you remember Martha?’

‘Of our town?’I needed no other answer than his face.‘Do you know that she is in London?’‘I have seen her in the streets,’ he answered, with a shiver.‘But you don’t know,’ said I, ‘that Emily was charitable to her,

with Ham’s help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, whenwe met one night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over theway, she listened at the door.’

‘Mas’r Davy!’ he replied in astonishment. ‘That night when it snewso hard?’

‘That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after partingfrom you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling tomention her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person ofwhom I speak, and with whom I think we should communicate. Doyou understand?’

‘Too well, sir,’ he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to awhisper, and continued to speak in that tone.

‘You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her?I could only hope to do so by chance.’

‘I think, Mas’r Davy, I know wheer to look.’‘It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her

tonight?’He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing

to observe what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted thelittle room, put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arrangedthe bed, and finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I re-member to have seen her wear it), neatly folded with some othergarments, and a bonnet, which he placed upon a chair. He made noallusion to these clothes, neither did I. There they had been waitingfor her, many and many a night, no doubt.

‘The time was, Mas’r Davy,’ he said, as we came downstairs, ‘when

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I thowt this girl, Martha, a’most like the dirt underneath my Em’ly’sfeet. God forgive me, theer’s a difference now!’

As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partlyto satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in thesame words as formerly, that Ham was just the same, ‘wearing awayhis life with kiender no care nohow for ‘t; but never murmuring, andliked by all’.

I asked him what he thought Ham’s state of mind was, in referenceto the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was danger-ous? What he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he andSteerforth ever should encounter?

‘I doen’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have thowt of it oftentimes, butI can’t awize myself of it, no matters.’

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure,when we were all three on the beach. ‘Do you recollect,’ said I, ‘acertain wild way in which he looked out to sea, and spoke about “theend of it”?’

‘Sure I do!’ said he.‘What do you suppose he meant?’‘Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘I’ve put the question to myself a mort o’

times, and never found no answer. And theer’s one curious thing —that, though he is so pleasant, I wouldn’t fare to feelcomfortable to try and get his mind upon ‘t. He never said a wuredto me as warn’t as dootiful as dootiful could be, and it ain’t likely ashe’d begin to speak any other ways now; but it’s fur from being fleetwater in his mind, where them thowts lays. It’s deep, sir, and I can’tsee down.’

‘You are right,’ said I, ‘and that has sometimes made me anxious.’‘And me too, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined. ‘Even more so, I do assure

you, than his ventersome ways, though both belongs to the alter-ation in him. I doen’t know as he’d do violence under any circum-stances, but I hope as them two may be kep asunders.’

We had come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Conversing nomore now, and walking at my side, he yielded himself up to the oneaim of his devoted life, and went on, with that hushed concentrationof his faculties which would have made his figure solitary in a multi-tude. We were not far from Blackfriars Bridge, when he turned

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his head and pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the oppo-site side of the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure that we sought.

We crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her, when itoccurred to me that she might be more disposed to feel a woman’sinterest in the lost girl, if we spoke to her in a quieter place, alooffrom the crowd, and where we should be less observed. I advised mycompanion, therefore, that we should not address her yet, but fol-low her; consulting in this, likewise, an indistinct desire I had, toknow where she went.

He acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing sight ofher, but never caring to come very near, as she frequently lookedabout. Once, she stopped to listen to a band of music; and then westopped too.

She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident, from themanner in which she held her course, that she was going to somefixed destination; and this, and her keeping in the busy streets, and Isuppose the strange fascination in the secrecy and mystery of so fol-lowing anyone, made me adhere to my first purpose. At length sheturned into a dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were lost;and I said, ‘We may speak to her now’; and, mending our pace, wewent after her.

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CHAPTER 47MARTHA

WE WERE NOW DOWN in Westminster. We had turned back to followher, having encountered her coming towards us; and WestminsterAbbey was the point at which she passed from the lights and noise ofthe leading streets. She proceeded so quickly, when she got free ofthe two currents of passengers setting towards and from the bridge,that, between this and the advance she had of us when she struck off,we were in the narrow water-side street by Millbank before we cameup with her. At that moment she crossed the road, as if to avoid thefootsteps that she heard so close behind; and, without looking back,passed on even more rapidly.

A glimpse of the river through a dull gateway, where some waggonswere housed for the night, seemed to arrest my feet. I touched mycompanion without speaking, and we both forbore to cross after her,and both followed on that opposite side of the way; keeping as quietlyas we could in the shadow of the houses, but keeping very near her.

There was, and is when I write, at the end of that low-lying street,a dilapidated little wooden building, probably an obsolete old ferry-house. Its position is just at that point where the street ceases, and theroad begins to lie between a row of houses and the river. As soon asshe came here, and saw the water, she stopped as if she had come toher destination; and presently wentslowly along by the brink of the river, looking intently at it.

All the way here, I had supposed that she was going to some house;indeed, I had vaguely entertained the hope that the house might bein some way associated with the lost girl. But that one dark glimpseof the river, through the gateway, had instinctively prepared me forher going no farther.

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The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive,sad, and solitary by night, as any about London. There were neitherwharves nor houses on the melancholy waste of road near the greatblank Prison. A sluggish ditch deposited its mud at the prison walls.Coarse grass and rank weeds straggled over all the marshy land in thevicinity. In one part, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun andnever finished, rotted away. In another, the ground was cumberedwith rusty iron monsters of steam-boilers, wheels, cranks, pipes, fur-naces, paddles, anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails, and I know notwhat strange objects, accumulated by some speculator, and grovel-ling in the dust, underneath which—having sunk into the soil oftheir own weight in wet weather—they had the appearance of vainlytrying to hide themselves. The clash and glare of sundry fiery Worksupon the river-side, arose by night to disturb everything except theheavy and unbroken smoke that poured out of their chimneys. Slimygaps and causeways, winding among old wooden piles, with a sicklysubstance clinging to the latter, like green hair, and the rags of lastyear’s handbills offering rewards for drowned men fluttering abovehigh-water mark, led down through the ooze and slush to the ebb-tide. There was a story that one of the pits dug for the dead in thetime of the Great Plague was hereabout; and a blighting influenceseemed to have proceeded from it over the whole place. Or else itlooked as if it had gradually decomposed into that nightmare condi-tion, out of the overflowings of the polluted stream.

As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast out, and left to corrup-tion and decay, the girl we had followed strayed down to the river’sbrink, and stood in the midst of this night-picture, lonely and still,looking at the water.

There were some boats and barges astrand in the mud, and theseenabled us to come within a few yards of her without being seen. Ithen signed to Mr. Peggotty to remain where he was, and emergedfrom their shade to speak to her. I did not approach her solitaryfigure without trembling; for this gloomy end to her determinedwalk, and the way in which she stood, almost within the cavernousshadow of the iron bridge, looking at the lights crookedly reflectedin the strong tide, inspired a dread within me.

I think she was talking to herself. I am sure, although absorbed in

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gazing at the water, that her shawl was off her shoulders, and that shewas muffling her hands in it, in an unsettled and bewildered way,more like the action of a sleep-walker than a waking person. I know,and never can forget, that there was that in her wild manner whichgave me no assurance but that she would sink before my eyes, until Ihad her arm within my grasp.

At the same moment I said ‘Martha!’She uttered a terrified scream, and struggled with me with such

strength that I doubt if I could have held her alone. But a strongerhand than mine was laid upon her; and when she raised her fright-ened eyes and saw whose it was, she made but one more effort anddropped down between us. We carried her away from the water towhere there were some dry stones, and there laid her down, cryingand moaning. In a little while she sat among the stones, holding herwretched head with both her hands.

‘Oh, the river!’ she cried passionately. ‘Oh, the river!’‘Hush, hush!’ said I. ‘Calm yourself.’But she still repeated the same words, continually exclaiming, ‘Oh,

the river!’ over and over again.‘I know it’s like me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know that I belong to it. I

know that it’s the natural company of such as I am! It comes fromcountry places, where there was once no harm in it—and it creepsthrough the dismal streets, defiled and miserable—and it goes away,like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled—and I feel that Imust go with it!’ I have never known what despair was, except in thetone of those words.

‘I can’t keep away from it. I can’t forget it. It haunts me day andnight. It’s the only thing in all the world that I am fit for, or that’s fitfor me. Oh, the dreadful river!’

The thought passed through my mind that in the face of my com-panion, as he looked upon her without speech or motion, I mighthave read his niece’s history, if I had known nothing of it. I never saw,in any painting or reality, horror and compassion so impressivelyblended. He shook as if he would have fallen; and his hand—I touchedit with my own, for his appearance alarmed me—was deadly cold.

‘She is in a state of frenzy,’ I whispered to him. ‘She will speakdifferently in a little time.’

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I don’t know what he would have said in answer. He made somemotion with his mouth, and seemed to think he had spoken; but hehad only pointed to her with his outstretched hand.

A new burst of crying came upon her now, in which she oncemore hid her face among the stones, and lay before us, a prostrateimage of humiliation and ruin. Knowing that this state must pass,before we could speak to her with any hope, I ventured to restrainhim when he would have raised her, and we stood by in silence untilshe became more tranquil.

‘Martha,’ said I then, leaning down, and helping her to rise—sheseemed to want to rise as if with the intention of going away, but shewas weak, and leaned against a boat. ‘Do you know who this is, whois with me?’

She said faintly, ‘Yes.’‘Do you know that we have followed you a long way tonight?’She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at me, but

stood in a humble attitude, holding her bonnet and shawl in onehand, without appearing conscious of them, and pressing the other,clenched, against her forehead.

‘Are you composed enough,’ said I, ‘to speak on the subject which sointerested you—I hope Heaven may remember it!—that snowy night?’

Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some inarticulatethanks to me for not having driven her away from the door.

‘I want to say nothing for myself,’ she said, after a few moments.‘I am bad, I am lost. I have no hope at all. But tell him, sir,’ she hadshrunk away from him, ‘if you don’t feel too hard to me to do it,that I never was in any way the cause of his misfortune.’

‘It has never been attributed to you,’ I returned, earnestly respond-ing to her earnestness.

‘It was you, if I don’t deceive myself,’ she said, in a broken voice, ‘thatcame into the kitchen, the night she took such pity on me; was so gentleto me; didn’t shrink away from me like all the rest, and gave me suchkind help! Was it you, sir?’

‘It was,’ said I.‘I should have been in the river long ago,’ she said, glancing at it

with a terrible expression, ‘if any wrong to her had been upon mymind. I never could have kept out of it a single winter’s

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night, if I had not been free of any share in that!’‘The cause of her flight is too well understood,’ I said. ‘You are

innocent of any part in it, we thoroughly believe,—we know.’‘Oh, I might have been much the better for her, if I had had a

better heart!’ exclaimed the girl, with most forlorn regret; ‘for shewas always good to me! She never spoke a word to me but what waspleasant and right. Is it likely I would try to make her what I ammyself, knowing what I am myself, so well? When I lost everythingthat makes life dear, the worst of all my thoughts was that I wasparted for ever from her!’

Mr. Peggotty, standing with one hand on the gunwale of the boat,and his eyes cast down, put his disengaged hand before his face.

‘And when I heard what had happened before that snowy night,from some belonging to our town,’ cried Martha, ‘the bitterestthought in all my mind was, that the people would remember sheonce kept company with me, and would say I had corrupted her!When, Heaven knows, I would have died to have brought back hergood name!’

Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of her remorseand grief was terrible.

‘To have died, would not have been much—what can I say?—Iwould have lived!’ she cried. ‘I would have lived to be old, in thewretched streets—and to wander about, avoided, in the dark—andto see the day break on the ghastly line of houses, and rememberhow the same sun used to shine into my room, and wake me once—I would have done even that, to save her!’

Sinking on the stones, she took some in each hand, and clenchedthem up, as if she would have ground them. She writhed into somenew posture constantly: stiffening her arms, twisting them before herface, as though to shut out from her eyes the little light there was, anddrooping her head, as if it were heavy with insupportable recollections.

‘What shall I ever do!’ she said, fighting thus with her despair. ‘How can I goon as I am, a solitary curse to myself, a living disgrace to everyone I come near!’Suddenly she turned to my companion. ‘Stamp upon me, kill me! When shewas your pride, you would have thought I had done her harm if I had brushedagainst her in the street. You can’t believe—why should you?—a syllable thatcomes out of my lips. It would be a burning shame upon you, even now, if she

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and I exchanged a word. I don’t complain. I don’t say she and I are alike—Iknow there is a long, long way between us. I only say, with all my guilt andwretchedness upon my head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, and loveher. Oh, don’t think that all the power I had of loving anything is quite wornout! Throw me away, as all the world does. Kill me for being what I am, andhaving ever known her; but don’t think that of me!’

He looked upon her, while she made this supplication, in a wilddistracted manner; and, when she was silent, gently raised her.

‘Martha,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘God forbid as I should judge you.Forbid as I, of all men, should do that, my girl! You doen’t know halfthe change that’s come, in course of time, upon me, when you think itlikely. Well!’ he paused a moment, then went on. ‘You doen’t under-stand how ’tis that this here gentleman and me has wished to speak toyou. You doen’t understand what ’tis we has afore us. Listen now!’

His influence upon her was complete. She stood, shrinkingly, be-fore him, as if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but her passionatesorrow was quite hushed and mute.

‘If you heerd,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘owt of what passed betweenMas’r Davy and me, th’ night when it snew so hard, you know as Ihave been—wheer not—fur to seek my dear niece. My dear niece,’he repeated steadily. ‘Fur she’s more dear to me now, Martha, thanshe was dear afore.’

She put her hands before her face; but otherwise remained quiet.‘I have heerd her tell,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as you was early left

fatherless and motherless, with no friend fur to take, in a rough sea-faring-way, their place. Maybe you can guess that if you’d had such afriend, you’d have got into a way of being fond of him in course oftime, and that my niece was kiender daughter-like to me.’

As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully about her,taking it up from the ground for that purpose.

‘Whereby,’ said he, ‘I know, both as she would go to the wureld’sfurdest end with me, if she could once see me again; and that shewould fly to the wureld’s furdest end to keep off seeing me. Forthough she ain’t no call to doubt my love, and doen’t—and doen’t,’he repeated, with a quiet assurance of the truth of what he said,‘there’s shame steps in, and keeps betwixt us.’

I read, in every word of his plain impressive way of delivering him-

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self, new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in everyfeature it presented.

‘According to our reckoning,’ he proceeded, ‘Mas’r Davy’s here,and mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary courseto London. We believe—Mas’r Davy, me, and all of us—that youare as innocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child.You’ve spoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her,I knew she was! I knew she always was, to all. You’re thankful to her,and you love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may Heavenreward you!’

She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she weredoubtful of what he had said.

‘Will you trust me?’ she asked, in a low voice of astonishment.‘Full and free!’ said Mr. Peggotty.‘To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have any

shelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge, cometo you, and bring you to her?’ she asked hurriedly.

We both replied together, ‘Yes!’She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would de-

vote herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she wouldnever waver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it, whilethere was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it, might theobject she now had in life, which bound her to somethingdevoid of evil, in its passing away from her, leave her more forlornand more despairing, if that were possible, than she had been uponthe river’s brink that night; and then might all help,human and Divine, renounce her evermore!

She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but saidthis to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at thegloomy water.

We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which Irecounted at length. She listened with great attention, and with aface that often changed, but had the same purpose in all its varyingexpressions. Her eyes occasionally filled with tears, but those she re-pressed. It seemed as if her spirit were quite altered, and she couldnot be too quiet.

She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated

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with, if occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I wroteour two addresses on a leaf of my pocket-book, which I tore out andgave to her, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked her whereshe lived herself. She said, after a pause, in no placelong. It were better not to know.

Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had alreadyoccurred to myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevailupon her to accept any money, nor could I exact any promise fromher that she would do so at another time. I represented to her thatMr. Peggotty could not be called, for one in his condition, poor; andthat the idea of her engaging in this search, while depending on herown resources, shocked us both. She continued steadfast. In this par-ticular, his influence upon her was equally powerless with mine. Shegratefully thanked him but remained inexorable.

‘There may be work to be got,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’‘At least take some assistance,’ I returned, ‘until you have tried.’‘I could not do what I have promised, for money,’ she replied. ‘I

could not take it, if I was starving. To give me money would be totake away your trust, to take away the object that you have given me,to take away the only certain thing that saves me from the river.’

‘In the name of the great judge,’ said I, ‘before whom you and allof us must stand at His dread time, dismiss that terrible idea! We canall do some good, if we will.’

She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler, as sheanswered:

‘It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a wretched crea-ture for repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems too bold. If anygood should come of me, I might begin to hope; for nothing butharm has ever come of my deeds yet. I am to be trusted, for the firsttime in a long while, with my miserable life, on account of what youhave given me to try for. I know nomore, and I can say no more.’

Again she repressed the tears that had begun to flow; and, puttingout her trembling hand, and touching Mr. Peggotty, as if there wassome healing virtue in him, went away along the desolate road. Shehad been ill, probably for a long time. I observed, upon that closeropportunity of observation, that she was worn and haggard,

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and that her sunken eyes expressed privation and endurance.We followed her at a short distance, our way lying in the same

direction, until we came back into the lighted and populous streets.I had such implicit confidence in her declaration, that I then put it toMr. Peggotty, whether it would not seem, in the onset, like distrust-ing her, to follow her any farther. He being of the same mind, andequally reliant on her, we suffered her to take her own road, and tookours, which was towards Highgate. He accompanied me a good partof the way; and when we parted, with a prayer for the success of thisfresh effort, there was a new and thoughtful compassion in him thatI was at no loss to interpret.

It was midnight when I arrived at home. I had reached my owngate, and was standing listening for the deep bell of St. Paul’s, thesound of which I thought had been borne towards me among themultitude of striking clocks, when I was rather surprised to see thatthe door of my aunt’s cottage was open, and that a faint light in theentry was shining out across the road.

Thinking that my aunt might have relapsed into one of her oldalarms, and might be watching the progress of some imaginary con-flagration in the distance, I went to speak to her. It was with verygreat surprise that I saw a man standing in her little garden.

He had a glass and bottle in his hand, and was in the act of drink-ing. I stopped short, among the thick foliage outside, for the moonwas up now, though obscured; and I recognized the man whom Ihad once supposed to be a delusion of Mr. Dick’s, and had onceencountered with my aunt in the streets of the city.

He was eating as well as drinking, and seemed to eat with a hungryappetite. He seemed curious regarding the cottage, too, as if it werethe first time he had seen it. After stooping to put the bottle on theground, he looked up at the windows, and looked about; thoughwith a covert and impatient air, as if he was anxious to be gone.

The light in the passage was obscured for a moment, and my auntcame out. She was agitated, and told some money into his hand. Iheard it chink.

‘What’s the use of this?’ he demanded.‘I can spare no more,’ returned my aunt.‘Then I can’t go,’ said he. ‘Here! You may take it back!’

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‘You bad man,’ returned my aunt, with great emotion; ‘how canyou use me so? But why do I ask? It is because you know how weakI am! What have I to do, to free myself for ever of your visits, but toabandon you to your deserts?’

‘And why don’t you abandon me to my deserts?’ said he.‘You ask me why!’ returned my aunt. ‘What a heart you must

have!’He stood moodily rattling the money, and shaking his head, until

at length he said:‘Is this all you mean to give me, then?’‘It is all I can give you,’ said my aunt. ‘You know I have had losses,

and am poorer than I used to be. I have told you so. Having got it,why do you give me the pain of looking at you for another moment,and seeing what you have become?’

‘I have become shabby enough, if you mean that,’ he said. ‘I leadthe life of an owl.’

‘You stripped me of the greater part of all I ever had,’ said my aunt.‘You closed my heart against the whole world, years and years. Youtreated me falsely, ungratefully, and cruelly. Go, and repent of it.Don’t add new injuries to the long, long list of injuries you havedone me!’

‘Aye!’ he returned. ‘It’s all very fine—Well! I must do the best I can,for the present, I suppose.’

In spite of himself, he appeared abashed by my aunt’s indignanttears, and came slouching out of the garden. Taking two or threequick steps, as if I had just come up, I met him at the gate, and wentin as he came out. We eyed one another narrowly in passing, andwith no favour.

‘Aunt,’ said I, hurriedly. ‘This man alarming you again! Let mespeak to him. Who is he?’

‘Child,’ returned my aunt, taking my arm, ‘come in, and don’tspeak to me for ten minutes.’

We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the roundgreen fan of former days, which was screwed on the back of a chair,and occasionally wiped her eyes, for about a quarter of an hour. Thenshe came out, and took a seat beside me.

‘Trot,’ said my aunt, calmly, ‘it’s my husband.’

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‘Your husband, aunt? I thought he had been dead!’‘Dead to me,’ returned my aunt, ‘but living.’I sat in silent amazement.‘Betsey Trotwood don’t look a likely subject for the tender pas-

sion,’ said my aunt, composedly, ‘but the time was, Trot, when shebelieved in that man most entirely. When she loved him, Trot, rightwell. When there was no proof of attachment and affection that shewould not have given him. He repaid her by breaking her fortune,and nearly breaking her heart. So she put all that sort of sentiment,once and for ever, in a grave, and filled it up, and flattened it down.’

‘My dear, good aunt!’‘I left him,’ my aunt proceeded, laying her hand as usual on the back of

mine, ‘generously. I may say at this distance of time, Trot, that I left himgenerously. He had been so cruel to me, that I might have effected a sepa-ration on easy terms for myself; but I did not. He soon made ducks anddrakes of what I gave him, sank lower and lower, married another woman,I believe, became an adventurer, a gambler, and a cheat. What he is now,you see. But he was a fine-looking man when I married him,’ said myaunt, with an echo of her old pride and admiration in her tone; ‘and Ibelieved him—I was a fool!—to be the soul of honour!’

She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.‘He is nothing to me now, Trot—less than nothing. But, sooner

than have him punished for his offences (as he would be if he prowledabout in this country), I give him more money than I can afford, atintervals when he reappears, to go away. I was a fool when I marriedhim; and I am so far an incurable fool on that subject, that, for thesake of what I once believed him to be, Iwouldn’t have even this shadow of my idle fancy hardly dealt with.For I was in earnest, Trot, if ever a woman was.’

My aunt dismissed the matter with a heavy sigh, and smoothedher dress.

‘There, my dear!’ she said. ‘Now you know the beginning, middle,and end, and all about it. We won’t mention the subject to one an-other any more; neither, of course, will you mention it to anybodyelse. This is my grumpy, frumpy story, and we’ll keep it to ourselves,Trot!’

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CHAPTER 48DOMESTIC

I LABOURED HARD AT MY BOOK, without allowing it to interfere with thepunctual discharge of my newspaper duties; and it came out and wasvery successful. I was not stunned by the praise which sounded in myears, notwithstanding that I was keenly alive to it, and thought betterof my own performance, I have little doubt, than anybody else did. Ithas always been in my observation of human nature, that a man whohas any good reason to believe in himself never flourishes himself be-fore the faces of other people in order that they may believe in him.For this reason, I retained my modesty in very self-respect; and themore praise I got, the more I tried to deserve.

It is not my purpose, in this record, though in all other essentials itis my written memory, to pursue the history of my own fictions.They express themselves, and I leave them to themselves. When Irefer to them, incidentally, it is only as a part of my progress.

Having some foundation for believing, by this time, that natureand accident had made me an author, I pursued my vocation withconfidence. Without such assurance I should certainly have left italone, and bestowed my energy on some other endeavour. I shouldhave tried to find out what nature and accident really had made me,and to be that, and nothing else. I had been writing, in the newspaperand elsewhere, so prosperously, that when my new success wasachieved, I considered myself reasonably entitled to escape from thedreary debates. One joyful night, therefore, I noted down the musicof the parliamentary bagpipes for the last time, and I have neverheard it since; though I still recognize the old drone in the newspa-pers, without any substantial variation (except, perhaps, that there ismore of it), all the livelong session.

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I now write of the time when I had been married, I suppose, abouta year and a half. After several varieties of experiment, we had givenup the housekeeping as a bad job. The house kept itself, and we kepta page. The principal function of this retainer was to quarrel with thecook; in which respect he was a perfect Whittington, without his cat,or the remotest chance of being made Lord Mayor.

He appears to me to have lived in a hail of saucepan-lids. His wholeexistence was a scuffle. He would shriek for help on the most im-proper occasions,—as when we had a little dinner-party, or a fewfriends in the evening,—and would come tumbling out of the kitchen,with iron missiles flying after him. We wanted to get rid of him, buthe was very much attached to us, and wouldn’t go. He was a tearfulboy, and broke into such deplorable lamentations, when a cessationof our connexion was hinted at, that we were obliged to keep him.He had no mother—no anything in the way of a relative, that Icould discover, except a sister, who fled to America the moment wehad taken him off her hands; and he became quartered on us like ahorrible young changeling. He had a lively perception of his ownunfortunate state, and was always rubbing his eyes with the sleeve ofhis jacket, or stooping to blow his nose on the extreme corner of alittle pocket-handkerchief, which he never would take completelyout of his pocket, but always economized and secreted.

This unlucky page, engaged in an evil hour at six pounds ten perannum, was a source of continual trouble to me. I watched him as hegrew—and he grew like scarlet beans—with painful apprehensionsof the time when he would begin to shave; even of the days when hewould be bald or grey. I saw no prospect of ever getting rid of him;and, projecting myself into the future, used to think what an incon-venience he would be when he was an old man.

I never expected anything less, than this unfortunate’s manner ofgetting me out of my difficulty. He stole Dora’s watch, which, likeeverything else belonging to us, had no particular place of its own;and, converting it into money, spent the produce (he was always aweak-minded boy) in incessantly riding up and down between Lon-don and Uxbridge outside the coach. He was taken to Bow Street, aswell as I remember, on the completion of his fifteenth journey; whenfour-and-sixpence, and a second-hand fife which he couldn’t play,were found upon his person.

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The surprise and its consequences would have been much less dis-agreeable to me if he had not been penitent. But he was very penitentindeed, and in a peculiar way—not in the lump, but by instalments.For example: the day after that on which I was obliged to appear againsthim, he made certain revelations touching a hamper in the cellar, whichwe believed to be full of wine, but which had nothing in it exceptbottles and corks. We supposed he had now eased his mind, and toldthe worst he knew of the cook; but, a day or two afterwards, his con-science sustained a new twinge, and he disclosed how she had a littlegirl, who, early every morning, took away our bread; and also how hehimself had been suborned to maintain the milkman in coals. In twoor three days more, I was informed by the authorities of his having ledto the discovery of sirloins of beef among the kitchen-stuff, and sheetsin the rag-bag. A little while afterwards, he broke out in an entirelynew direction, and confessed to a knowledge of burglarious intentionsas to our premises, on the part of the pot-boy, who was immediatelytaken up. I got to be so ashamed of being such a victim, that I wouldhave given him any money to hold his tongue, or would have offereda round bribe for his being permitted to run away. It was an aggravat-ing circumstance in the case that he had no idea of this, but conceivedthat he was making me amends in every new discovery: not to say,heaping obligations on my head.

At last I ran away myself, whenever I saw an emissary of the policeapproaching with some new intelligence; and lived a stealthy life untilhe was tried and ordered to be transported. Even then he couldn’t bequiet, but was always writing us letters; and wanted so much to seeDora before he went away, that Dora went to visit him, and faintedwhen she found herself inside the iron bars. In short, I had no peaceof my life until he was expatriated, and made (as I afterwards heard)a shepherd of, ‘up the country’ somewhere; I have no geographicalidea where.

All this led me into some serious reflections, and presented ourmistakes in a new aspect; as I could not help communicating to Doraone evening, in spite of my tenderness for her.

‘My love,’ said I, ‘it is very painful to me to think that our want ofsystem and management, involves not only ourselves (which we havegot used to), but other people.’

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‘You have been silent for a long time, and now you are going to becross!’ said Dora.

‘No, my dear, indeed! Let me explain to you what I mean.’‘I think I don’t want to know,’ said Dora.‘But I want you to know, my love. Put Jip down.’Dora put his nose to mine, and said ‘Boh!’ to drive my seriousness

away; but, not succeeding, ordered him into his Pagoda, and sat look-ing at me, with her hands folded, and a most resigned little expres-sion of countenance.

‘The fact is, my dear,’ I began, ‘there is contagion in us. We infecteveryone about us.’

I might have gone on in this figurative manner, if Dora’s face hadnot admonished me that she was wondering with all her mightwhether I was going to propose any new kind of vaccination, orother medical remedy, for this unwholesome state of ours. ThereforeI checked myself, and made my meaning plainer.

‘It is not merely, my pet,’ said I, ‘that we lose money and comfort,and even temper sometimes, by not learning to be more careful; butthat we incur the serious responsibility of spoiling everyone whocomes into our service, or has any dealings with us. I begin to beafraid that the fault is not entirely on one side, but that these peopleall turn out ill because we don’t turn out very well ourselves.’

‘Oh, what an accusation,’ exclaimed Dora, opening her eyes wide;‘to say that you ever saw me take gold watches! Oh!’

‘My dearest,’ I remonstrated, ‘don’t talk preposterous nonsense!Who has made the least allusion to gold watches?’

‘You did,’ returned Dora. ‘You know you did. You said I hadn’tturned out well, and compared me to him.’

‘To whom?’ I asked.‘To the page,’ sobbed Dora. ‘Oh, you cruel fellow, to compare

your affectionate wife to a transported page! Why didn’t you tell meyour opinion of me before we were married? Why didn’t you say,you hard-hearted thing, that you were convinced I was worse than atransported page? Oh, what a dreadful opinion to have of me! Oh,my goodness!’

‘Now, Dora, my love,’ I returned, gently trying to remove thehandkerchief she pressed to her eyes, ‘this is not only very ridiculous

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of you, but very wrong. In the first place, it’s not true.’‘You always said he was a story-teller,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And now you

say the same of me! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!’‘My darling girl,’ I retorted, ‘I really must entreat you to be rea-

sonable, and listen to what I did say, and do say. My dear Dora,unless we learn to do our duty to those whom we employ, they willnever learn to do their duty to us. I am afraid we present opportuni-ties to people to do wrong, that never ought to be presented. Even ifwe were as lax as we are, in all our arrangements, by choice—whichwe are not—even if we liked it, and found it agreeable to be so—which we don’t—I am persuaded we should have no right to go onin this way. We are positively corrupting people. We are bound tothink of that. I can’t help thinking of it, Dora. It is a reflection I amunable to dismiss, and it sometimes makes me very uneasy. There,dear, that’s all. Come now. Don’t be foolish!’

Dora would not allow me, for a long time, to remove the hand-kerchief. She sat sobbing and murmuring behind it, that, if I wasuneasy, why had I ever been married? Why hadn’t I said, eventhe day before we went to church, that I knew I should be uneasy,and I would rather not? If I couldn’t bear her, why didn’t I send heraway to her aunts at Putney, or to Julia Mills in India? Julia would beglad to see her, and would not call her a transported page; Julia neverhad called her anything of the sort. In short, Dora was so afflicted,and so afflicted me by being in that condition, that I felt it was of nouse repeating this kind of effort, though never so mildly, and I musttake some other course.

What other course was left to take? To ‘form her mind’? This wasa common phrase of words which had a fair and promising sound,and I resolved to form Dora’s mind.

I began immediately. When Dora was very childish, and I wouldhave infinitely preferred to humour her, I tried to be grave—anddisconcerted her, and myself too. I talked to her on the subjects whichoccupied my thoughts; and I read Shakespeare to her—and fatiguedher to the last degree. I accustomed myself to giving her, as it werequite casually, little scraps of useful information, or sound opinion—and she started from them when I let them off, as if they had beencrackers. No matter how incidentally or naturally I endeavoured to

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form my little wife’s mind, I could not help seeing that she alwayshad an instinctive perception of what I was about, and became a preyto the keenest apprehensions. In particular, it was clear to me, thatshe thought Shakespeare a terrible fellow. The formation went onvery slowly.

I pressed Traddles into the service without his knowledge; andwhenever he came to see us, exploded my mines upon him for theedification of Dora at second hand. The amount of practical wisdomI bestowed upon Traddles in this manner was immense, and of thebest quality; but it had no other effect upon Dora than to depress herspirits, and make her always nervous with the dread that it would beher turn next. I found myself in the condition of a schoolmaster, atrap, a pitfall; of always playing spider to Dora’s fly, and always pounc-ing out of my hole to her infinite disturbance.

Still, looking forward through this intermediate stage, to the timewhen there should be a perfect sympathy between Dora and me, andwhen I should have ‘formed her mind’ to my entire satisfaction, Ipersevered, even for months. Finding at last, however, that, althoughI had been all this time a very porcupine or hedgehog, bristling allover with determination, I had effected nothing, it began to occur tome that perhaps Dora’s mind was already formed.

On further consideration this appeared so likely, that I abandonedmy scheme, which had had a more promising appearance in wordsthan in action; resolving henceforth to be satisfied with my child-wife, and to try to change her into nothing else by any process. I washeartily tired of being sagacious and prudent by myself, and of seeingmy darling under restraint; so I bought a pretty pair of ear-rings forher, and a collar for Jip, and went home one day to make myselfagreeable.

Dora was delighted with the little presents, and kissed me joyfully;but there was a shadow between us, however slight, and I had madeup my mind that it should not be there. If there must be such ashadow anywhere, I would keep it for the future in my own breast.

I sat down by my wife on the sofa, and put the ear-rings in herears; and then I told her that I feared we had not been quite as goodcompany lately, as we used to be, and that the fault was mine. WhichI sincerely felt, and which indeed it was.

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‘The truth is, Dora, my life,’ I said; ‘I have been trying to be wise.’‘And to make me wise too,’ said Dora, timidly. ‘Haven’t you,

Doady?’I nodded assent to the pretty inquiry of the raised eyebrows, and

kissed the parted lips.‘It’s of not a bit of use,’ said Dora, shaking her head, until the ear-

rings rang again. ‘You know what a little thing I am, and what Iwanted you to call me from the first. If you can’t do so, I am afraidyou’ll never like me. Are you sure you don’t think, sometimes, itwould have been better to have—’

‘Done what, my dear?’ For she made no effort to proceed.‘Nothing!’ said Dora.‘Nothing?’ I repeated.She put her arms round my neck, and laughed, and called herself

by her favourite name of a goose, and hid her face on my shoulder insuch a profusion of curls that it was quite a task to clear them awayand see it.

‘Don’t I think it would have been better to have done nothing,than to have tried to form my little wife’s mind?’ said I, laughing atmyself. ‘Is that the question? Yes, indeed, I do.’

‘Is that what you have been trying?’ cried Dora. ‘Oh what a shock-ing boy!’

‘But I shall never try any more,’ said I. ‘For I love her dearly as she is.’‘Without a story—really?’ inquired Dora, creeping closer to me.‘Why should I seek to change,’ said I, ‘what has been so precious to

me for so long! You never can show better than as your own naturalself, my sweet Dora; and we’ll try no conceited experiments, but goback to our old way, and be happy.’

‘And be happy!’ returned Dora. ‘Yes! All day! And you won’t mindthings going a tiny morsel wrong, sometimes?’

‘No, no,’ said I. ‘We must do the best we can.’‘And you won’t tell me, any more, that we make other people bad,’

coaxed Dora; ‘will you? Because you know it’s so dreadfully cross!’‘No, no,’ said I.‘it’s better for me to be stupid than uncomfortable, isn’t it?’ said

Dora.‘Better to be naturally Dora than anything else in the world.’

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‘In the world! Ah, Doady, it’s a large place!’She shook her head, turned her delighted bright eyes up to mine,

kissed me, broke into a merry laugh, and sprang away to put on Jip’snew collar.

So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora. I had beenunhappy in trying it; I could not endure my own solitary wisdom; Icould not reconcile it with her former appeal to me as my child-wife.I resolved to do what I could, in a quiet way, to improve our proceed-ings myself, but I foresaw that my utmost would be very little, or Imust degenerate into the spider again, and be for ever lying in wait.

And the shadow I have mentioned, that was not to be between usany more, but was to rest wholly on my own heart? How did that fall?

The old unhappy feeling pervaded my life. It was deepened, if itwere changed at all; but it was as undefined as ever, and addressed melike a strain of sorrowful music faintly heard in the night. I loved mywife dearly, and I was happy; but the happiness I had vaguely antici-pated, once, was not the happiness I enjoyed, and there was alwayssomething wanting.

In fulfilment of the compact I have made with myself, to reflectmy mind on this paper, I again examine it, closely, and bring itssecrets to the light. What I missed, I still regarded—I always re-garded—as something that had been a dream of my youthful fancy;that was incapable of realization; that I was now discovering to be so,with some natural pain, as all men did. But that it would have beenbetter for me if my wife could have helped me more, and shared themany thoughts in which I had no partner; and that this might havebeen; I knew.

Between these two irreconcilable conclusions: the one, that what Ifelt was general and unavoidable; the other, that it was particular tome, and might have been different: I balanced curiously, with nodistinct sense of their opposition to each other. When I thought ofthe airy dreams of youth that are incapable of realization, I thoughtof the better state preceding manhood that I had outgrown; and thenthe contented days with Agnes, in the dear old house, arose beforeme, like spectres of the dead, that might have some renewal in an-other world, but never more could be reanimated here.

Sometimes, the speculation came into my thoughts, What might

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have happened, or what would have happened, if Dora and I hadnever known each other? But she was so incorporated with my exist-ence, that it was the idlest of all fancies, and would soon rise out ofmy reach and sight, like gossamer floating in the air.

I always loved her. What I am describing, slumbered, and halfawoke, and slept again, in the innermost recesses of my mind. Therewas no evidence of it in me; I know of no influence it had in any-thing I said or did. I bore the weight of all our little cares, and all myprojects; Dora held the pens; and we both felt that our shares wereadjusted as the case required. She was truly fond of me, and proud ofme; and when Agnes wrote a few earnest words in her letters to Dora,of the pride and interest with which my old friends heard of mygrowing reputation, and read my book as if they heard me speakingits contents, Dora read them out to me with tears of joy in her brighteyes, and said I was a dear old clever, famous boy.

‘The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.’ Those wordsof Mrs. Strong’s were constantly recurring to me, at this time; werealmost always present to my mind. I awoke with them, often, in thenight; I remember to have even read them, in dreams, inscribed uponthe walls of houses. For I knew, now, that my own heart was undis-ciplined when it first loved Dora; and that if it had been disciplined,it never could have felt, when we were married, what it had felt in itssecret experience.

‘There can be no disparity in marriage, like unsuitability of mind andpurpose.’ Those words I remembered too. I had endeavoured to adaptDora to myself, and found it impracticable. It remained for me to adaptmyself to Dora; to share with her what I could, and be happy; to bear onmy own shoulders what I must, and be happy still. This was the disci-pline to which I tried to bring my heart, when I began to think. It mademy second year much happier than my first; and, what was better still,made Dora’s life all sunshine.

But, as that year wore on, Dora was not strong. I had hoped thatlighter hands than mine would help to mould her character, and that ababy-smile upon her breast might change my child-wife to a woman. Itwas not to be. The spirit fluttered for a moment on the threshold of itslittle prison, and, unconscious of captivity, took wing.

‘When I can run about again, as I used to do, aunt,’ said Dora, ‘I

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shall make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and lazy.’‘I suspect, my dear,’ said my aunt quietly working by her side, ‘he

has a worse disorder than that. Age, Dora.’‘Do you think he is old?’ said Dora, astonished. ‘Oh, how strange it

seems that Jip should be old!’‘It’s a complaint we are all liable to, Little One, as we get on in

life,’ said my aunt, cheerfully; ‘I don’t feel more free from it than Iused to be, I assure you.’

‘But Jip,’ said Dora, looking at him with compassion, ‘even littleJip! Oh, poor fellow!’

‘I dare say he’ll last a long time yet, Blossom,’ said my aunt, pat-ting Dora on the cheek, as she leaned out of her couch to look at Jip,who responded by standing on his hind legs, and baulking himself invarious asthmatic attempts to scramble up by the head and shoul-ders. ‘He must have a piece of flannel in his house this winter, and Ishouldn’t wonder if he came out quite fresh again, with the flowersin the spring. Bless the little dog!’ exclaimed my aunt, ‘if he had asmany lives as a cat, and was on the point of losing ‘em all, he’d barkat me with his last breath, I believe!’

Dora had helped him up on the sofa; where he really was defyingmy aunt to such a furious extent, that he couldn’t keep straight, butbarked himself sideways. The more my aunt looked at him, the morehe reproached her; for she had lately taken to spectacles, and for someinscrutable reason he considered the glasses personal.

Dora made him lie down by her, with a good deal of persuasion;and when he was quiet, drew one of his long ears through and throughher hand, repeating thoughtfully, ‘Even little Jip! Oh, poor fellow!’

‘His lungs are good enough,’ said my aunt, gaily, ‘and his dislikesare not at all feeble. He has a good many years before him, no doubt.But if you want a dog to race with, Little Blossom, he has lived toowell for that, and I’ll give you one.’

‘Thank you, aunt,’ said Dora, faintly. ‘But don’t, please!’‘No?’ said my aunt, taking off her spectacles.‘I couldn’t have any other dog but Jip,’ said Dora. ‘It would be so

unkind to Jip! Besides, I couldn’t be such friends with any other dogbut Jip; because he wouldn’t have known me before I was married,and wouldn’t have barked at Doady when he first came to our house.

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I couldn’t care for any other dog but Jip, I am afraid, aunt.’‘To be sure!’ said my aunt, patting her cheek again. ‘You are right.’‘You are not offended,’ said Dora. ‘Are you?’‘Why, what a sensitive pet it is!’ cried my aunt, bending over her

affectionately. ‘To think that I could be offended!’‘No, no, I didn’t really think so,’ returned Dora; ‘but I am a little tired,

and it made me silly for a moment—I am always a silly little thing, youknow, but it made me more silly—to talk about Jip. He has known mein all that has happened to me, haven’t you, Jip? And I couldn’t bear toslight him, because he was a little altered—could I, Jip?’

Jip nestled closer to his mistress, and lazily licked her hand.‘You are not so old, Jip, are you, that you’ll leave your mistress

yet?’ said Dora. ‘We may keep one another company a little longer!’My pretty Dora! When she came down to dinner on the ensuing

Sunday, and was so glad to see old Traddles (who always dined withus on Sunday), we thought she would be ‘running about as she usedto do’, in a few days. But they said, wait a few days more; and then,wait a few days more; and still she neither ran nor walked. She lookedvery pretty, and was very merry; but the little feet that used to be sonimble when they danced round Jip, were dull and motionless.

I began to carry her downstairs every morning, and upstairs every night.She would clasp me round the neck and laugh, the while, as if I did it fora wager. Jip would bark and caper round us, and go on before, and lookback on the landing, breathing short, to see that we were coming. Myaunt, the best and most cheerful of nurses, would trudge after us, amoving mass of shawls and pillows. Mr. Dick would not have relin-quished his post of candle-bearer to anyone alive. Traddles would beoften at the bottom of the staircase, looking on, and taking charge ofsportive messages from Dora to the dearest girl in the world. We madequite a gay procession of it, and my child-wife was the gayest there.

But, sometimes, when I took her up, and felt that she was lighter inmy arms, a dead blank feeling came upon me, as if I were approachingto some frozen region yet unseen, that numbed my life. I avoided therecognition of this feeling by any name, or by any communing withmyself; until one night, when it was very strong upon me, and myaunt had left her with a parting cry of ‘Good night, Little Blossom,’ Isat down at my desk alone, and cried to think, Oh what a fatal name itwas, and how the blossom withered in its bloom upon the tree!

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CHAPTER 49I AM INVOLVED

IN MYSTERY

I RECEIVED ONE MORNING by the post, the following letter, dated Can-terbury, and addressed to me at Doctor’s Commons; which I readwith some surprise:

‘MY DEAR SIR,

‘Circumstances beyond my individual control have, for a consid-erable lapse of time, effected a severance of that intimacy which, inthe limited opportunities conceded to me in the midst of my profes-sional duties, of contemplating the scenes and events of the past,tinged by the prismatic hues of memory, has ever afforded me, as itever must continue to afford, gratifying emotions of no common de-scription. This fact, my dear sir, combined with the distinguished el-evation to which your talents have raised you, deters me from presum-ing to aspire to the liberty of addressing the companion of my youth,by the familiar appellation of Copperfield! It is sufficient to know thatthe name to which I do myself the honour to refer, will ever be trea-sured among the muniments of our house (I allude to the archivesconnected with our former lodgers, preserved by Mrs. Micawber), withsentiments of personal esteem amounting to affection.

‘It is not for one, situated, through his original errors and a fortu-itous combination of unpropitious events, as is the foundered Bark(if he may be allowed to assume so maritime a denomination), whonow takes up the pen to address you—it is not, I repeat, for one socircumstanced, to adopt the language of compliment, or of con-

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gratulation. That he leaves to abler and to purer hands.‘If your more important avocations should admit of your ever

tracing these imperfect characters thus far—which may be, or maynot be, as circumstances arise—you will naturally inquire by whatobject am I influenced, then, in inditing the present missive? Allowme to say that I fully defer to the reasonable character of that inquiry,and proceed to develop it; premising that it is not an object of apecuniary nature.

‘Without more directly referring to any latent ability that may possi-bly exist on my part, of wielding the thunderbolt, or directing the de-vouring and avenging flame in any quarter, I may be permitted to ob-serve, in passing, that my brightest visions are for ever dispelled—thatmy peace is shattered and my power of enjoyment destroyed—that myheart is no longer in the right place—and that I no more walk erectbefore my fellow man. The canker is in the flower. The cup is bitter tothe brim. The worm is at his work, and will soon dispose of his victim.The sooner the better. But I will not digress.

‘Placed in a mental position of peculiar painfulness, beyond theassuaging reach even of Mrs. Micawber’s influence, though exercisedin the tripartite character of woman, wife, and mother, it is my in-tention to fly from myself for a short period, and devote a respite ofeight-and-forty hours to revisiting some metropolitan scenes of pastenjoyment. Among other havens of domestic tranquillity and peaceof mind, my feet will naturally tend towards the King’s Bench Prison.In stating that I shall be (D. V.) on the outside of the south wall ofthat place of incarceration on civil process, the day after tomorrow,at seven in the evening, precisely, my object in this epistolary com-munication is accomplished.

‘I do not feel warranted in soliciting my former friend Mr.Copperfield, or my former friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the InnerTemple, if that gentleman is still existent and forthcoming, to con-descend to meet me, and renew (so far as may be) our past relationsof the olden time. I confine myself to throwing out the observation,that, at the hour and place I have indicated, may be found such ru-ined vestiges as yet ‘Remain, ‘Of

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‘A ‘Fallen Tower, ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.

‘P.S. It may be advisable to superadd to the above, the statement thatMrs. Micawber is not in confidential possession of my intentions.’

I read the letter over several times. Making due allowance for Mr.Micawber’s lofty style of composition, and for the extraordinary relishwith which he sat down and wrote long letters on all possible and im-possible occasions, I still believed that something important lay hiddenat the bottom of this roundabout communication. I put it down, tothink about it; and took it up again, to read it once more; and was stillpursuing it, when Traddles found me in the height of my perplexity.

‘My dear fellow,’ said I, ‘I never was better pleased to see you. Youcome to give me the benefit of your sober judgement at a mostopportune time. I have received a very singular letter, Traddles, fromMr. Micawber.’

‘No?’ cried Traddles. ‘You don’t say so? And I have received onefrom Mrs. Micawber!’

With that, Traddles, who was flushed with walking, and whosehair, under the combined effects of exercise and excitement, stoodon end as if he saw a cheerful ghost, produced his letter and made anexchange with me. I watched him into the heart of Mr. Micawber’sletter, and returned the elevation of eyebrows with which he said“‘Wielding the thunderbolt, or directing the devouring and avengingflame!” Bless me, Copperfield!’—and then entered on the perusal ofMrs. Micawber’s epistle.

It ran thus:

‘My best regards to Mr. Thomas Traddles, and if he should stillremember one who formerly had the happiness of being well acquaintedwith him, may I beg a few moments of his leisure time? I assure Mr. T.T. that I would not intrude upon his kindness, were I in any otherposition than on the confines of distraction.

‘Though harrowing to myself to mention, the alienation of Mr.Micawber (formerly so domesticated) from his wife and family, is

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the cause of my addressing my unhappy appeal to Mr. Traddles, andsoliciting his best indulgence. Mr. T. can form no adequate idea ofthe change in Mr. Micawber’s conduct, of his wildness, of his vio-lence. It has gradually augmented, until it assumes the appearance ofaberration of intellect. Scarcely a day passes, I assure Mr. Traddles, onwhich some paroxysm does not take place. Mr. T. will not requireme to depict my feelings, when I inform him that I have becomeaccustomed to hear Mr. Micawber assert that he has sold himself tothe D. Mystery and secrecy have long been his principal characteris-tic, have long replaced unlimited confidence. The slightest provoca-tion, even being asked if there is anything he would prefer for dinner,causes him to express a wish for a separation. Last night, on beingchildishly solicited for twopence, to buy ‘lemon-stunners’—a localsweetmeat—he presented an oyster-knife at the twins!

‘I entreat Mr. Traddles to bear with me in entering into these de-tails. Without them, Mr. T. would indeed find it difficult to formthe faintest conception of my heart-rending situation.

‘May I now venture to confide to Mr. T. the purport of my letter?Will he now allow me to throw myself on his friendly consideration?Oh yes, for I know his heart!

‘The quick eye of affection is not easily blinded, when of the fe-male sex. Mr. Micawber is going to London. Though he studiouslyconcealed his hand, this morning before breakfast, in writing thedirection-card which he attached to the little brown valise of happierdays, the eagle-glance of matrimonial anxiety detected, d, o, n, dis-tinctly traced. The West-End destination of the coach, is the GoldenCross. Dare I fervently implore Mr. T. to see my misguided hus-band, and to reason with him? Dare I ask Mr. T. to endeavour to stepin between Mr. Micawber and his agonized family? Oh no, for thatwould be too much!

‘If Mr. Copperfield should yet remember one unknown to fame,will Mr. T. take charge of my unalterable regards and similar entreat-ies? In any case, he will have the benevolence to consider this com-munication strictly private, and on no account whatever to be al-luded to, however distantly, in the presence of Mr. Micawber. If Mr.T. should ever reply to it (which I cannot but feel to be most im-probable), a letter addressed to M. E., Post Office, Canterbury, will

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be fraught with less painful consequences than any addressed imme-diately to one, who subscribes herself, in extreme distress,

‘Mr. Thomas Traddles’s respectful friend and suppliant,

‘EMMA MICAWBER.’

‘What do you think of that letter?’ said Traddles, casting his eyesupon me, when I had read it twice.

‘What do you think of the other?’ said I. For he was still reading itwith knitted brows.

‘I think that the two together, Copperfield,’ replied Traddles, ‘meanmore than Mr. and Mrs. Micawber usually mean in their correspon-dence—but I don’t know what. They are both written in good faith,I have no doubt, and without any collusion. Poor thing!’ he was nowalluding to Mrs. Micawber’s letter, and we were standing side by sidecomparing the two; ‘it will be a charity to write to her, at all events,and tell her that we will not fail to see Mr. Micawber.’

I acceded to this the more readily, because I now reproached my-self with having treated her former letter rather lightly. It had set methinking a good deal at the time, as I have mentioned in its place; butmy absorption in my own affairs, my experience of the family, andmy hearing nothing more, had gradually ended in my dismissing thesubject. I had often thought of the Micawbers, but chiefly to won-der what ‘pecuniary liabilities’ they were establishing in Canterbury,and to recall how shy Mr. Micawber was of me when he becameclerk to Uriah Heep.

However, I now wrote a comforting letter to Mrs. Micawber, inour joint names, and we both signed it. As we walked into town topost it, Traddles and I held a long conference, and launched into anumber of speculations, which I need not repeat. We took my auntinto our counsels in the afternoon; but our only decided conclusionwas, that we would be very punctual in keeping Mr. Micawber’sappointment.

Although we appeared at the stipulated place a quarter of an hourbefore the time, we found Mr. Micawber already there. He was stand-ing with his arms folded, over against the wall, looking at the spikes onthe top, with a sentimental expression, as if they were the interlacing

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boughs of trees that had shaded him in his youth.When we accosted him, his manner was something more con-

fused, and something less genteel, than of yore. He had relinquishedhis legal suit of black for the purposes of this excursion, and wore theold surtout and tights, but not quite with the old air. He graduallypicked up more and more of it as we conversed with him;but, his very eye-glass seemed to hang less easily, and his shirt-collar,though still of the old formidable dimensions, rather drooped.

‘Gentlemen!’ said Mr. Micawber, after the first salutations, ‘youare friends in need, and friends indeed. Allow me to offer my inquir-ies with reference to the physical welfare of Mrs. Copperfield in esse,and Mrs. Traddles in posse,—presuming, that is to say, that my friendMr. Traddles is not yet united to the object of his affections, for wealand for woe.’

We acknowledged his politeness, and made suitable replies. Hethen directed our attention to the wall, and was beginning, ‘I assureyou, gentlemen,’ when I ventured to object to that ceremonious formof address, and to beg that he would speak to us in the old way.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ he returned, pressing my hand, ‘your cor-diality overpowers me. This reception of a shattered fragment of theTemple once called Man—if I may be permitted so to express my-self—bespeaks a heart that is an honour to our common nature. Iwas about to observe that I again behold the serene spot where someof the happiest hours of my existence fleeted by.’

‘Made so, I am sure, by Mrs. Micawber,’ said I. ‘I hope she is well?’‘Thank you,’ returned Mr. Micawber, whose face clouded at this

reference, ‘she is but so-so. And this,’ said Mr. Micawber, noddinghis head sorrowfully, ‘is the Bench! Where, for the first time in manyrevolving years, the overwhelming pressure of pecuniary liabilitieswas not proclaimed, from day to day, by importune voices decliningto vacate the passage; where there wasno knocker on the door for anycreditor to appeal to; where personal service of process was not re-quired, and detainees were merely lodged at the gate! Gentlemen,’said Mr. Micawber, ‘when the shadow of that iron-work on the summitof the brick structure has been reflected on the gravel of the Parade, Ihave seen my children thread the mazes of the intricate pattern, avoid-ing the dark marks. I have been familiar with every stone in the place.

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If I betray weakness, you will know how to excuse me.’‘We have all got on in life since then, Mr. Micawber,’ said I.‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, bitterly, ‘when I was

an inmate of that retreat I could look my fellow-man in the face, andpunch his head if he offended me. My fellow-man and myself are nolonger on those glorious terms!’

Turning from the building in a downcast manner, Mr. Micawberaccepted my proffered arm on one side, and the proffered arm ofTraddles on the other, and walked away between us.

‘There are some landmarks,’ observed Mr. Micawber, lookingfondly back over his shoulder, ‘on the road to the tomb, which, butfor the impiety of the aspiration, a man would wish never to havepassed. Such is the Bench in my chequered career.’

‘Oh, you are in low spirits, Mr. Micawber,’ said Traddles.‘I am, sir,’ interposed Mr. Micawber.‘I hope,’ said Traddles, ‘it is not because you have conceived a dis-

like to the law—for I am a lawyer myself, you know.’Mr. Micawber answered not a word.‘How is our friend Heep, Mr. Micawber?’ said I, after a silence.‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, bursting into a

state of much excitement, and turning pale, ‘if you ask after myemployer as your friend, I am sorry for it; if you ask after him as myfriend, I sardonically smile at it. In whatever capacity you ask aftermy employer, I beg, without offence to you, to limit my reply tothis—that whatever his state of health may be, his appearance is foxy:not to say diabolical. You will allow me, as a private individual, todecline pursuing a subject which has lashed me to the utmost vergeof desperation in my professional capacity.’

I expressed my regret for having innocently touched upon a themethat roused him so much. ‘May I ask,’ said I, ‘without any hazard ofrepeating the mistake, how my old friends Mr. and Miss Wickfield are?’

‘Miss Wickfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, now turning red, ‘is, as she al-ways is, a pattern, and a bright example. My dear Copperfield, she is theonly starry spot in a miserable existence. My respect for that young lady,my admiration of her character, my devotion to her for her love andtruth, and goodness!—Take me,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘down a turning,for, upon my soul, in my present state of mind I am not equal to this!’

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We wheeled him off into a narrow street, where he took out hispocket-handkerchief, and stood with his back to a wall. If I lookedas gravely at him as Traddles did, he must have found our companyby no means inspiriting.

‘It is my fate,’ said Mr. Micawber, unfeignedly sobbing, but doingeven that, with a shadow of the old expression of doing somethinggenteel; ‘it is my fate, gentlemen, that the finer feelings of our naturehave become reproaches to me. My homage to Miss Wickfield, is aflight of arrows in my bosom. You had better leave me, if you please,to walk the earth as a vagabond. The worm will settle my business indouble-quick time.’

Without attending to this invocation, we stood by, until he put uphis pocket-handkerchief, pulled up his shirt-collar, and, to delude anyperson in the neighbourhood who might have been observing him,hummed a tune with his hat very much on one side. I then men-tioned—not knowing what might be lost if we lost sight of him yet—that it would give me great pleasure to introduce him to my aunt, if hewould ride out to Highgate, where a bed was at his service.

‘You shall make us a glass of your own punch, Mr. Micawber,’ saidI, ‘and forget whatever you have on your mind, in pleasanter remi-niscences.’

‘Or, if confiding anything to friends will be more likely to relieveyou, you shall impart it to us, Mr. Micawber,’ said Traddles, prudently.

‘Gentlemen,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘do with me as you will! Iam a straw upon the surface of the deep, and am tossed in all direc-tions by the elephants—I beg your pardon; I should have saidthe elements.’

We walked on, arm-in-arm, again; found the coach in the act ofstarting; and arrived at Highgate without encountering any difficul-ties by the way. I was very uneasy and very uncertain in my mindwhat to say or do for the best—so was Traddles, evidently. Mr.Micawber was for the most part plunged into deep gloom. He occa-sionally made an attempt to smarten himself, and hum the fag-endof a tune; but his relapses into profound melancholy were only madethe more impressive by the mockery of a hat exceedingly on oneside, and a shirt-collar pulled up to his eyes.

We went to my aunt’s house rather than to mine, because of Dora’s

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not being well. My aunt presented herself on being sent for, andwelcomed Mr. Micawber with gracious cordiality. Mr. Micawberkissed her hand, retired to the window, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, had a mental wrestle with himself.

Mr. Dick was at home. He was by nature so exceedingly compas-sionate of anyone who seemed to be ill at ease, and was so quick tofind any such person out, that he shook hands with Mr. Micawber,at least half-a-dozen times in five minutes. To Mr. Micawber, in histrouble, this warmth, on the part of a stranger, was so extremelytouching, that he could only say, on the occasion of each successiveshake, ‘My dear sir, you overpower me!’ Which gratified Mr. Dickso much, that he went at it again with greatervigour than before.

‘The friendliness of this gentleman,’ said Mr. Micawber to myaunt, ‘if you will allow me, ma’am, to cull a figure of speech fromthe vocabulary of our coarser national sports—floors me. To a manwho is struggling with a complicated burden of perplexity and dis-quiet, such a reception is trying, I assure you.’

‘My friend Mr. Dick,’ replied my aunt proudly, ‘is not a commonman.’

‘That I am convinced of,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘My dear sir!’ for Mr.Dick was shaking hands with him again; ‘I am deeply sensible of yourcordiality!’

‘How do you find yourself?’ said Mr. Dick, with an anxious look.‘Indifferent, my dear sir,’ returned Mr. Micawber, sighing.‘You must keep up your spirits,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘and make yourself

as comfortable as possible.’Mr. Micawber was quite overcome by these friendly words, and

by finding Mr. Dick’s hand again within his own. ‘It has been mylot,’ he observed, ‘to meet, in the diversified panorama of humanexistence, with an occasional oasis, but never with one so green, sogushing, as the present!’

At another time I should have been amused by this; but I felt thatwe were all constrained and uneasy, and I watched Mr. Micawber soanxiously, in his vacillations between an evident disposition to revealsomething, and a counter-disposition to reveal nothing, that I was in aperfect fever. Traddles, sitting on the edge of his chair, with his eyes

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wide open, and his hair more emphatically erect than ever, stared byturns at the ground and at Mr. Micawber, without so much as at-tempting to put in a word. My aunt, though I saw that her shrewdestobservation was concentrated on her new guest, had more useful pos-session of her wits than either of us; for she held him in conversation,and made it necessary for him to talk, whether he liked it or not.

‘You are a very old friend of my nephew’s, Mr. Micawber,’ said myaunt. ‘I wish I had had the pleasure of seeing you before.’

‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘I wish I had had the honour ofknowing you at an earlier period. I was not always the wreck you atpresent behold.’

‘I hope Mrs. Micawber and your family are well, sir,’ said my aunt.Mr. Micawber inclined his head. ‘They are as well, ma’am,’ he desper-

ately observed after a pause, ‘as Aliens and Outcasts can ever hope to be.’‘Lord bless you, sir!’ exclaimed my aunt, in her abrupt way. ‘What

are you talking about?’‘The subsistence of my family, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Micawber,

‘trembles in the balance. My employer—’Here Mr. Micawber provokingly left off; and began to peel the

lemons that had been under my directions set before him, togetherwith all the other appliances he used in making punch.

‘Your employer, you know,’ said Mr. Dick, jogging his arm as agentle reminder.

‘My good sir,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘you recall me, I am obligedto you.’ They shook hands again. ‘My employer, ma’am—Mr.Heep—once did me the favour to observe to me, that if I were notin the receipt of the stipendiary emoluments appertaining to my en-gagement with him, I should probably be a mountebank about thecountry, swallowing a sword-blade, and eating the devouring ele-ment. For anything that I can perceive to the contrary, it is still prob-able that my children may be reduced to seek a livelihood by per-sonal contortion, while Mrs. Micawber abets their unnatural feats byplaying the barrel-organ.’

Mr. Micawber, with a random but expressive flourish of his knife,signified that these performances might be expected to take placeafter he was no more; then resumed his peeling with a desperate air.

My aunt leaned her elbow on the little round table that she usually

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kept beside her, and eyed him attentively. Notwithstanding the aver-sion with which I regarded the idea of entrapping him into any dis-closure he was not prepared to make voluntarily, I should have takenhim up at this point, but for the strange proceedings inwhich I saw him engaged; whereof his putting the lemon-peel intothe kettle, the sugar into the snuffer-tray, the spirit into the emptyjug, and confidently attempting to pour boiling water out of a candle-stick, were among the most remarkable. I saw that a crisis was athand, and it came. He clattered all his means and implements to-gether, rose from his chair, pulled out his pocket-handkerchief, andburst into tears.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, behind his handker-chief, ‘this is an occupation, of all others, requiring an untroubledmind, and self-respect. I cannot perform it. It is out of thequestion.’

‘Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘what is the matter? Pray speak out. You areamong friends.’

‘Among friends, sir!’ repeated Mr. Micawber; and all he had re-served came breaking out of him. ‘Good heavens, it is principallybecause I am among friends that my state of mind is what it is. Whatis the matter, gentlemen? What is not the matter? Villainy is the mat-ter; baseness is the matter; deception, fraud, conspiracy, are the mat-ter; and the name of the whole atrocious mass is—Heep!’

My aunt clapped her hands, and we all started up as if we werepossessed.

‘The struggle is over!’ said Mr. Micawber violently gesticulatingwith his pocket-handkerchief, and fairly striking out from time totime with both arms, as if he were swimming under superhumandifficulties. ‘I will lead this life no longer. I am a wretched being, cutoff from everything that makes life tolerable. I have been under aTaboo in that infernal scoundrel’s service. Give me back my wife,give me back my family, substitute Micawber for the petty wretchwho walks about in the boots at present on my feet, and call uponme to swallow a sword tomorrow, and I’ll do it. With an appetite!’

I never saw a man so hot in my life. I tried to calm him, that wemight come to something rational; but he got hotter and hotter, andwouldn’t hear a word.

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‘I’ll put my hand in no man’s hand,’ said Mr. Micawber, gasping,puffing, and sobbing, to that degree that he was like a man fightingwith cold water, ‘until I have—blown to fragments—the —a—de-testable—serpent—Heep! I’ll partake of no one’s hospitality, until Ihave—a—moved Mount Vesuvius—to eruption —on—a—theabandoned rascal—Heep! Refreshment—a— underneath this roof—particularly punch—would—a—choke me—unless—I had—previ-ously—choked the eyes—out of the head—a—of—interminablecheat, and liar—Heep! I—a—I’ll know nobody—and—a—say noth-ing—and—a—live nowhere—until I have crushed—to—a—undis-coverable atoms—the—transcendent and immortal hypocrite andperjurer—Heep!’

I really had some fear of Mr. Micawber’s dying on the spot. Themanner in which he struggled through these inarticulate sentences,and, whenever he found himself getting near the name of Heep,fought his way on to it, dashed at it in a fainting state, and brought itout with a vehemence little less than marvellous, was frightful; butnow, when he sank into a chair, steaming, and looked at us, withevery possible colour in his face that had no business there, and anendless procession of lumps following one another in hot haste uphis throat, whence they seemed to shoot into his forehead, he hadthe appearance of being in the last extremity. Iwould have gone to his assistance, but he waved me off, and wouldn’thear a word.

‘No, Copperfield!—No communication—a—until—MissWickfield —a—redress from wrongs inflicted by consummate scoun-drel—Heep!’ (I am quite convinced he could not have uttered threewords, but for the amazing energy with which this word inspiredhim when he felt it coming.) ‘Inviolable secret—a—from the wholeworld —a—no exceptions—this day week—a—at breakfast-time—a—everybody present—including aunt—a—and extremely friendlygentleman—to be at the hotel at Canterbury—a—where—Mrs.Micawber and myself—Auld Lang Syne in chorus—and—a—willexpose intolerable ruffian—Heep! No more to say—a—or listen topersuasion—go immediately—not capable—a—bear society—uponthe track of devoted and doomed traitor—Heep!’

With this last repetition of the magic word that had kept him

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going at all, and in which he surpassed all his previous efforts, Mr.Micawber rushed out of the house; leaving us in a state ofexcitement, hope, and wonder, that reduced us to a condition littlebetter than his own. But even then his passion for writing letters wastoo strong to be resisted; for while we were yet in the height of ourexcitement, hope, and wonder, the following pastoral note wasbrought to me from a neighbouring tavern, at which he hadcalled to write it:—

‘Most secret and confidential.‘MY DEAR SIR,

‘I beg to be allowed to convey, through you, my apologies to yourexcellent aunt for my late excitement. An explosion of a smoulder-ing volcano long suppressed, was the result of an internal contestmore easily conceived than described.

‘I trust I rendered tolerably intelligible my appointment for themorning of this day week, at the house of public entertainment atCanterbury, where Mrs. Micawber and myself had once the honourof uniting our voices to yours, in the well-known strain of the Im-mortal exciseman nurtured beyond the Tweed.

‘The duty done, and act of reparation performed, which can aloneenable me to contemplate my fellow mortal, I shall be known nomore. I shall simply require to be deposited in that place of universalresort, where

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,

‘—With the plain Inscription,

‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’

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CHAPTER 50Mr. PEGGOTTY’S DREAM

COMES TRUE

BY THIS TIME, some months had passed since our interview on thebank of the river with Martha. I had never seen her since, but she hadcommunicated with Mr. Peggotty on several occasions. Nothing hadcome of her zealous intervention; nor could I infer, from what hetold me, that any clue had been obtained, for a moment, to Emily’sfate. I confess that I began to despair of her recovery, and gradually tosink deeper and deeper into the belief that she was dead.

His conviction remained unchanged. So far as I know—and I be-lieve his honest heart was transparent to me—he never wavered again,in his solemn certainty of finding her. His patience never tired. And,although I trembled for the agony it might one day be to him tohave his strong assurance shivered at a blow, there wassomething so religious in it, so affectingly expressive of its anchorbeing in the purest depths of his fine nature, that the respect andhonour in which I held him were exalted every day.

His was not a lazy trustfulness that hoped, and did no more. Hehad been a man of sturdy action all his life, and he knew that in allthings wherein he wanted help he must do his own part faithfully,and help himself. I have known him set out in the night, on a mis-giving that the light might not be, by some accident, in the windowof the old boat, and walk to Yarmouth. I have known him, on read-ing something in the newspaper that might apply to her, take up hisstick, and go forth on a journey of three—or four-score miles. Hemade his way by sea to Naples, and back, after hearing the narrativeto which Miss Dartle had assisted me. All his journeys were ruggedly

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performed; for he was always steadfast in a purpose of saving moneyfor Emily’s sake, when she should be found. In all this long pursuit,I never heard him repine; I never heard him say he was fatigued, orout of heart.

Dora had often seen him since our marriage, and was quite fond ofhim. I fancy his figure before me now, standing near her sofa, withhis rough cap in his hand, and the blue eyes of my child-wife raised,with a timid wonder, to his face. Sometimes of an evening, abouttwilight, when he came to talk with me, I would induce him tosmoke his pipe in the garden, as we slowly paced to and fro together;and then, the picture of his deserted home, and the comfortable air itused to have in my childish eyes of an evening when the fire wasburning, and the wind moaning round it, came most vividly intomy mind.

One evening, at this hour, he told me that he had found Marthawaiting near his lodging on the preceding night when he came out,and that she had asked him not to leave London on any account,until he should have seen her again.

‘Did she tell you why?’ I inquired.‘I asked her, Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘but it is but few words as she

ever says, and she on’y got my promise and so went away.’‘Did she say when you might expect to see her again?’ I demanded.‘No, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned, drawing his hand thoughtfully down

his face. ‘I asked that too; but it was more (she said) than she could tell.’As I had long forborne to encourage him with hopes that hung on

threads, I made no other comment on this information than that Isupposed he would see her soon. Such speculations as it engenderedwithin me I kept to myself, and those were faint enough.

I was walking alone in the garden, one evening, about a fortnightafterwards. I remember that evening well. It was the second in Mr.Micawber’s week of suspense. There had been rain all day, and therewas a damp feeling in the air. The leaves were thick upon the trees, andheavy with wet; but the rain had ceased, though the sky was still dark;and the hopeful birds were singing cheerfully. As I walked to and fro inthe garden, and the twilight began to close around me, their little voiceswere hushed; and that peculiar silence which belongs to such an eveningin the country when the lightest trees are quite still, save for the occa-

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sional droppings from their boughs, prevailed.There was a little green perspective of trellis-work and ivy at the

side of our cottage, through which I could see, from the garden whereI was walking, into the road before the house. I happened to turn myeyes towards this place, as I was thinking of many things; and I saw afigure beyond, dressed in a plain cloak. It was bending eagerly to-wards me, and beckoning.

‘Martha!’ said I, going to it.‘Can you come with me?’ she inquired, in an agitated whisper. ‘I have

been to him, and he is not at home. I wrote down where he was tocome, and left it on his table with my own hand. They said he wouldnot be out long. I have tidings for him. Can you come directly?’

My answer was, to pass out at the gate immediately. She made ahasty gesture with her hand, as if to entreat my patience and mysilence, and turned towards London, whence, as her dress betokened,she had come expeditiously on foot.

I asked her if that were not our destination? On her motioningYes, with the same hasty gesture as before, I stopped an empty coachthat was coming by, and we got into it. When I asked her where thecoachman was to drive, she answered, ‘Anywhere near Golden Square!And quick!’—then shrunk into a corner, with one trembling handbefore her face, and the other making the former gesture, as if shecould not bear a voice.

Now much disturbed, and dazzled with conflicting gleams of hopeand dread, I looked at her for some explanation. But seeing howstrongly she desired to remain quiet, and feeling that it was my ownnatural inclination too, at such a time, I did not attempt to break thesilence. We proceeded without a word being spoken. Sometimes sheglanced out of the window, as though she thought we were goingslowly, though indeed we were going fast; but otherwise remainedexactly as at first.

We alighted at one of the entrances to the Square she had men-tioned, where I directed the coach to wait, not knowing but that wemight have some occasion for it. She laid her hand on my arm, andhurried me on to one of the sombre streets, of which there are severalin that part, where the houses were once fair dwellings in the occupa-tion of single families, but have, and had, long degenerated into poor

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lodgings let off in rooms. Entering at the open door of one of these,and releasing my arm, she beckoned me to follow her up the com-mon staircase, which was like a tributary channel to the street.

The house swarmed with inmates. As we went up, doors of roomswere opened and people’s heads put out; and we passed other peopleon the stairs, who were coming down. In glancing up from the out-side, before we entered, I had seen women and children lolling at thewindows over flower-pots; and we seemed to have attracted theircuriosity, for these were principally the observers who looked out oftheir doors. It was a broad panelled staircase, with massive balus-trades of some dark wood; cornices above the doors, ornamentedwith carved fruit and flowers; and broad seats in the windows. Butall these tokens of past grandeur were miserably decayed and dirty;rot, damp, and age, had weakened the flooring, which in many placeswas unsound and even unsafe. Some attempts had been made, I no-ticed, to infuse new blood into this dwindling frame, by repairingthe costly old wood-work here and there with common deal; but itwas like the marriage of a reduced old noble to a plebeian pauper,and each party to the ill-assorted union shrunk away from the other.Several of the back windows on the staircase had been darkened orwholly blocked up. In those that remained, there was scarcely anyglass; and, through the crumbling frames by which the bad air seemedalways to come in, and never to go out, I saw, through other glasslesswindows, into other houses in a similar condition, and looked gid-dily down into a wretched yard, which was the common dust-heapof the mansion.

We proceeded to the top-storey of the house. Two or three times,by the way, I thought I observed in the indistinct light the skirts of afemale figure going up before us. As we turned to ascend the lastflight of stairs between us and the roof, we caught a full view of thisfigure pausing for a moment, at a door. Then it turned the handle,and went in.

‘What’s this!’ said Martha, in a whisper. ‘She has gone into myroom. I don’t know her!’

I knew her. I had recognized her with amazement, for Miss Dartle.I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom I had seen

before, in a few words, to my conductress; and had scarcely done so,

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when we heard her voice in the room, though not, from where westood, what she was saying. Martha, with an astonished look, re-peated her former action, and softly led me up the stairs; and then,by a little back-door which seemed to have no lock, and which shepushed open with a touch, into a small empty garret with a lowsloping roof, little better than a cupboard. Between this, and theroom she had called hers, there was a small door of communication,standing partly open. Here we stopped, breathless with our ascent,and she placed her hand lightly on my lips. I could only see, of theroom beyond, that it was pretty large; that there was a bed in it; andthat there were some common pictures of ships upon the walls. Icould not see Miss Dartle, or the person whom we had heard heraddress. Certainly, my companion could not, for my position wasthe best. A dead silence prevailed for some moments. Martha keptone hand on my lips, and raised the other in a listening attitude.

‘It matters little to me her not being at home,’ said Rosa Dartlehaughtily, ‘I know nothing of her. It is you I come to see.’

‘Me?’ replied a soft voice.At the sound of it, a thrill went through my frame. For it was

Emily’s!‘Yes,’ returned Miss Dartle, ‘I have come to look at you. What?

You are not ashamed of the face that has done so much?’The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold stern sharp-

ness, and its mastered rage, presented her before me, as if I had seenher standing in the light. I saw the flashing black eyes, and the pas-sion-wasted figure; and I saw the scar, with its white track cuttingthrough her lips, quivering and throbbing as she spoke.

‘I have come to see,’ she said, ‘James Steerforth’s fancy; the girl whoran away with him, and is the town-talk of the commonest people ofher native place; the bold, flaunting, practised companion of persons likeJames Steerforth. I want to know what such a thing is like.’

There was a rustle, as if the unhappy girl, on whom she heaped thesetaunts, ran towards the door, and the speaker swiftly interposed herselfbefore it. It was succeeded by a moment’s pause.

When Miss Dartle spoke again, it was through her set teeth, andwith a stamp upon the ground.

‘Stay there!’ she said, ‘or I’ll proclaim you to the house, and the

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whole street! If you try to evade me, I’ll stop you, if it’s by the hair,and raise the very stones against you!’

A frightened murmur was the only reply that reached my ears. Asilence succeeded. I did not know what to do. Much as I desired toput an end to the interview, I felt that I had no right topresent myself; that it was for Mr. Peggotty alone to see her andrecover her. Would he never come? I thought impatiently.

‘So!’ said Rosa Dartle, with a contemptuous laugh, ‘I see her atlast! Why, he was a poor creature to be taken by that delicate mock-modesty, and that hanging head!’

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, spare me!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘Whoever youare, you know my pitiable story, and for Heaven’s sake spare me, ifyou would be spared yourself!’

‘If I would be spared!’ returned the other fiercely; ‘what is there incommon between US, do you think!’

‘Nothing but our sex,’ said Emily, with a burst of tears.‘And that,’ said Rosa Dartle, ‘is so strong a claim, preferred by one

so infamous, that if I had any feeling in my breast but scorn andabhorrence of you, it would freeze it up. Our sex! You are an honourto our sex!’

‘I have deserved this,’ said Emily, ‘but it’s dreadful! Dear, dear lady,think what I have suffered, and how I am fallen! Oh, Martha, comeback! Oh, home, home!’

Miss Dartle placed herself in a chair, within view of the door, andlooked downward, as if Emily were crouching on the floor beforeher. Being now between me and the light, I could see her curled lip,and her cruel eyes intently fixed on one place, with a greedy triumph.

‘Listen to what I say!’ she said; ‘and reserve your false arts for yourdupes. Do you hope to move me by your tears? No more than youcould charm me by your smiles, you purchased slave.’

‘Oh, have some mercy on me!’ cried Emily. ‘Show me some com-passion, or I shall die mad!’

‘It would be no great penance,’ said Rosa Dartle, ‘for your crimes. Doyou know what you have done? Do you ever think of the home you havelaid waste?’

‘Oh, is there ever night or day, when I don’t think of it!’ cried Emily;and now I could just see her, on her knees, with her head thrown back,

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her pale face looking upward, her hands wildly clasped and held out, andher hair streaming about her. ‘Has there ever been a single minute, wak-ing or sleeping, when it hasn’t been before me, just as it used to be in thelost days when I turned my back upon it for ever and for ever! Oh,home, home! Oh dear, dear uncle, if you ever could have known theagony your love would cause me when I fell away from good, you neverwould have shown it to me so constant, much as you felt it; but wouldhave been angry to me, at least once in my life, that I might have hadsome comfort! I have none, none, no comfort upon earth, for all ofthem were always fond of me!’ She dropped on her face, before theimperious figure in the chair, with an imploring effort to clasp the skirtof her dress.

Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon her, as inflexible as a figure ofbrass. Her lips were tightly compressed, as if she knew that she mustkeep a strong constraint upon herself—I write what I sincerely be-lieve—or she would be tempted to strike the beautiful form withher foot. I saw her, distinctly, and the whole power of her face andcharacter seemed forced into that expression.—Would he never come?

‘The miserable vanity of these earth-worms!’ she said, when she had so farcontrolled the angry heavings of her breast, that she could trust herself tospeak. ‘Your home! Do you imagine that I bestow a thought on it, or sup-pose you could do any harm to that low place, which money would not payfor, and handsomely? Your home! You were a part of the trade of your home,and were bought and sold like any other vendible thing your people dealt in.’

‘Oh, not that!’ cried Emily. ‘Say anything of me; but don’t visitmy disgrace and shame, more than I have done, on folks who are ashonourable as you! Have some respect for them, as you are a lady, ifyou have no mercy for me.’

‘I speak,’ she said, not deigning to take any heed of this appeal, anddrawing away her dress from the contamination of Emily’s touch, ‘Ispeak of his home—where I live. Here,’ she said, stretching out herhand with her contemptuous laugh, and looking down upon theprostrate girl, ‘is a worthy cause of division between lady-motherand gentleman-son; of grief in a house where she wouldn’t have beenadmitted as a kitchen-girl; of anger, and repining, and reproach. Thispiece of pollution, picked up from the water-side, to be made muchof for an hour, and then tossed back to her original place!’

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‘No! no!’ cried Emily, clasping her hands together. ‘When he firstcame into my way—that the day had never dawned upon me, and hehad met me being carried to my grave!—I had been brought up asvirtuous as you or any lady, and was going to be the wife of as gooda man as you or any lady in the world can ever marry. If you live inhis home and know him, you know, perhaps, what his power with aweak, vain girl might be. I don’t defend myself, but I know well, andhe knows well, or he will know when he comes to die, and his mindis troubled with it, that he used all his power to deceive me, and thatI believed him, trusted him, and loved him!’

Rosa Dartle sprang up from her seat; recoiled; and in recoiling struckat her, with a face of such malignity, so darkened and disfigured bypassion, that I had almost thrown myself between them. The blow,which had no aim, fell upon the air. As she now stood panting, look-ing at her with the utmost detestation that she was capable of express-ing, and trembling from head to foot with rage and scorn, I thought Ihad never seen such a sight, and never could see such another.

‘You love him? You?’ she cried, with her clenched hand, quiveringas if it only wanted a weapon to stab the object of her wrath.

Emily had shrunk out of my view. There was no reply.‘And tell that to me,’ she added, ‘with your shameful lips? Why

don’t they whip these creatures? If I could order it to be done, Iwould have this girl whipped to death.’

And so she would, I have no doubt. I would not have trusted herwith the rack itself, while that furious look lasted. She slowly, veryslowly, broke into a laugh, and pointed at Emily with her hand, as ifshe were a sight of shame for gods and men.

‘She love!’ she said. ‘That carrion! And he ever cared for her, she’dtell me. Ha, ha! The liars that these traders are!’

Her mockery was worse than her undisguised rage. Of the two, Iwould have much preferred to be the object of the latter. But, whenshe suffered it to break loose, it was only for a moment. She hadchained it up again, and however it might tear her within, she subduedit to herself.

‘I came here, you pure fountain of love,’ she said, ‘to see—as Ibegan by telling you—what such a thing as you was like. I was curi-ous. I am satisfied. Also to tell you, that you had best seek that home

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of yours, with all speed, and hide your head among those excellentpeople who are expecting you, and whom your money will console.When it’s all gone, you can believe, and trust, and love again, youknow! I thought you a broken toy that had lasted its time; a worth-less spangle that was tarnished, and thrown away. But, finding youtrue gold, a very lady, and an ill-used innocent, with a fresh heart fullof love and trustfulness—which you look like, and is quite consis-tent with your story!—I have something more to say. Attend to it;for what I say I’ll do. Do you hear me, you fairy spirit? What I say, Imean to do!’

Her rage got the better of her again, for a moment; but it passedover her face like a spasm, and left her smiling.

‘Hide yourself,’ she pursued, ‘if not at home, somewhere. Let it besomewhere beyond reach; in some obscure life—or, better still, insome obscure death. I wonder, if your loving heart will not break,you have found no way of helping it to be still! I have heard of suchmeans sometimes. I believe they may be easily found.’

A low crying, on the part of Emily, interrupted her here. Shestopped, and listened to it as if it were music.

‘I am of a strange nature, perhaps,’ Rosa Dartle went on; ‘but Ican’t breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find it sickly. Therefore, Iwill have it cleared; I will have it purified of you. If you live heretomorrow, I’ll have your story and your character proclaimed on thecommon stair. There are decent women in the house, I am told; andit is a pity such a light as you should be among them, and concealed.If, leaving here, you seek any refuge in this town in any character butyour true one (which you are welcome to bear, without molestationfrom me), the same service shall be done you, if I hear of your re-treat. Being assisted by a gentleman who not long ago aspired to thefavour of your hand, I am sanguine as to that.’

Would he never, never come? How long was I to bear this? Howlong could I bear it? ‘Oh me, oh me!’ exclaimed the wretched Emily,in a tone that might have touched the hardest heart, I should havethought; but there was no relenting in Rosa Dartle’s smile. ‘What,what, shall I do!’

‘Do?’ returned the other. ‘Live happy in your own reflections!Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth’s

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tenderness—he would have made you his serving-man’s wife, wouldhe not?—or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving creaturewho would have taken you as his gift. Or, if those proud remem-brances, and the consciousness of your own virtues, and the honourableposition to which they have raised you in the eyes of everything thatwears the human shape, will not sustain you, marry that good man,and be happy in his condescension. If this will not do either, die!There are doorways and dust-heaps for such deaths, and such de-spair—find one, and take your flight to Heaven!’

I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew it, I was certain. Itwas his, thank God!

She moved slowly from before the door when she said this, andpassed out of my sight.

‘But mark!’ she added, slowly and sternly, opening the other doorto go away, ‘I am resolved, for reasons that I have and hatreds that Ientertain, to cast you out, unless you withdraw from my reach alto-gether, or drop your pretty mask. This is what I had to say; and whatI say, I mean to do!’

The foot upon the stairs came nearer—nearer—passed her as shewent down—rushed into the room!

‘Uncle!’A fearful cry followed the word. I paused a moment, and looking

in, saw him supporting her insensible figure in his arms. He gazed for afew seconds in the face; then stooped to kiss it—oh, how tenderly!—anddrew a handkerchief before it.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, in a low tremulous voice, when it was covered,‘I thank my Heav’nly Father as my dream’s come true! I thank Himhearty for having guided of me, in His own ways, to my darling!’

With those words he took her up in his arms; and, with the veiledface lying on his bosom, and addressed towards his own, carried her,motionless and unconscious, down the stairs.

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CHAPTER 51THE BEGINNING OF A

LONGER JOURNEY

It was yet early in the morning of the following day, when, as I waswalking in my garden with my aunt (who took little other exercisenow, being so much in attendance on my dear Dora), I was told thatMr. Peggotty desired to speak with me. He came into the garden tomeet me half-way, on my going towards the gate; and bared his head,as it was always his custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whomhe had a high respect. I had been telling her all that had happenedovernight. Without saying a word, she walked up with a cordial face,shook hands with him, and patted him on the arm. It was so expres-sively done, that she had no need to say a word. Mr. Peggotty under-stood her quite as well as if she had said a thousand.

‘I’ll go in now, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘and look after Little Blossom, whowill be getting up presently.’

‘Not along of my being heer, ma’am, I hope?’ said Mr. Peggotty.‘Unless my wits is gone a bahd’s neezing’—by which Mr. Peggottymeant to say, bird’s-nesting—’this morning, ’tis along of me as you’rea-going to quit us?’

‘You have something to say, my good friend,’ returned my aunt, ‘andwill do better without me.’

‘By your leave, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘I should take itkind, pervising you doen’t mind my clicketten, if you’d bide heer.’

‘Would you?’ said my aunt, with short good-nature. ‘Then I amsure I will!’

So, she drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty’s, and walked with himto a leafy little summer-house there was at the bottom of the garden,

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where she sat down on a bench, and I beside her. There was a seat forMr. Peggotty too, but he preferred to stand, leaning his hand on thesmall rustic table. As he stood, looking at his cap for a little whilebefore beginning to speak, I could not help observing what power andforce of character his sinewy hand expressed, and what a good andtrusty companion it was to his honest brow and iron-grey hair.

‘I took my dear child away last night,’ Mr. Peggotty began, as heraised his eyes to ours, ‘to my lodging, wheer I have a long time beenexpecting of her and preparing fur her. It was hours afore she knowedme right; and when she did, she kneeled down at my feet, and kiendersaid to me, as if it was her prayers, how it all come to be. You maybelieve me, when I heerd her voice, as I had heerd at home so play-ful—and see her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviourwrote in with his blessed hand—I felt a wownd go to my ‘art, in themidst of all its thankfulness.’

He drew his sleeve across his face, without any pretence of conceal-ing why; and then cleared his voice.

‘It warn’t for long as I felt that; for she was found. I had on’y tothink as she was found, and it was gone. I doen’t know why I do somuch as mention of it now, I’m sure. I didn’t have it in my mind aminute ago, to say a word about myself; but it come up so nat’ral,that I yielded to it afore I was aweer.’

‘You are a self-denying soul,’ said my aunt, ‘and will have yourreward.’

Mr. Peggotty, with the shadows of the leaves playing athwart hisface, made a surprised inclination of the head towards my aunt, as anacknowledgement of her good opinion; then took up the thread hehad relinquished.

‘When my Em’ly took flight,’ he said, in stern wrath for the mo-ment, ‘from the house wheer she was made a prisoner by that theerspotted snake as Mas’r Davy see,—and his story’s trew, and may Godconfound him!—she took flight in the night. It was a dark night,with a many stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along the seabeach, believing the old boat was theer; and calling out to us to turnaway our faces, for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-cryingout, like as if it was another person; and cutherself on them sharp-pinted stones and rocks, and felt it no more

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than if she had been rock herself. Ever so fur she run, and there wasfire afore her eyes, and roarings in her ears. Of a sudden—or so shethowt, you unnerstand—the day broke, wet and windy, and she waslying b’low a heap of stone upon the shore, and a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in the language of that country, what was itas had gone so much amiss?’

He saw everything he related. It passed before him, as he spoke, sovividly, that, in the intensity of his earnestness, he presented what hedescribed to me, with greater distinctness than I can express. I canhardly believe, writing now long afterwards, but that I was actuallypresent in these scenes; they are impressed upon me with such anastonishing air of fidelity.

‘As Em’ly’s eyes—which was heavy—see this woman better,’ Mr.Peggotty went on, ‘she know’d as she was one of them as she hadoften talked to on the beach. Fur, though she had run (as I have said)ever so fur in the night, she had oftentimes wandered long ways,partly afoot, partly in boats and carriages, and know’d all that coun-try, ‘long the coast, miles and miles. She hadn’t no children of herown, this woman, being a young wife; but she was a-looking to haveone afore long. And may my prayers go up to Heaven that ‘twill be ahappiness to her, and a comfort, and a honour, all her life! May it loveher and be dootiful to her, in her old age; helpful of her at the last; aAngel to her heer, and heerafter!’

‘Amen!’ said my aunt.‘She had been summat timorous and down,’ said Mr. Peggotty,

and had sat, at first, a little way off, at her spinning, or such work asit was, when Em’ly talked to the children. But Em’ly had took no-tice of her, and had gone and spoke to her; and as the young womanwas partial to the children herself, they had soon made friends.Sermuchser, that when Em’ly went that way, she always give Em’lyflowers. This was her as now asked what it was that had gone somuch amiss. Em’ly told her, and she—took her home. She did in-deed. She took her home,’ said Mr. Peggotty, covering his face.

He was more affected by this act of kindness, than I had ever seenhim affected by anything since the night she went away. My auntand I did not attempt to disturb him.

‘It was a little cottage, you may suppose,’ he said, presently, ‘but

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she found space for Em’ly in it,—her husband was away at sea,—andshe kep it secret, and prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (theywas not many near) to keep it secret too. Em’ly was took bad withfever, and, what is very strange to me is,—maybe’tis not so strange to scholars,—the language of that country wentout of her head, and she could only speak her own, that no oneunnerstood. She recollects, as if she had dreamed it, that she lay therealways a-talking her own tongue, always believing as the old boatwas round the next pint in the bay, and begging and imploringof ‘em to send theer and tell how she was dying, and bring back amessage of forgiveness, if it was on’y a wured. A’most the wholetime, she thowt,—now, that him as I made mention on just now waslurking for her unnerneath the winder; now that him as had broughther to this was in the room,—and cried to the good young womannot to give her up, and know’d, at the same time, that she couldn’tunnerstand, and dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise the firewas afore her eyes, and the roarings in her ears; and theer was no today,nor yesterday, nor yet tomorrow; but everything in her life as ever hadbeen, or as ever could be, and everything as never had been, and asnever could be, was a crowding on her all at once, and nothing clearnor welcome, and yet she sang and laughed about it! How long thislasted, I doen’t know; but then theer come a sleep; and in that sleep,from being a many times stronger than her own self, she fell into theweakness of the littlest child.’

Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors of his own de-scription. After being silent for a few moments, he pursued his story.

‘It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke; and so quiet, thatthere warn’t a sound but the rippling of that blue sea without a tide,upon the shore. It was her belief, at first, that she was at home upona Sunday morning; but the vine leaves as she see at the winder, andthe hills beyond, warn’t home, and contradicted of her. Then, comein her friend to watch alongside of her bed; and then she know’d asthe old boat warn’t round that next pint in the bay no more, but wasfur off; and know’d where she was, and why; and broke out a-cryingon that good young woman’s bosom, wheer I hope her baby is a-lying now, a-cheering of her with its pretty eyes!’

He could not speak of this good friend of Emily’s without a flow

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of tears. It was in vain to try. He broke down again, endeavouring tobless her!

‘That done my Em’ly good,’ he resumed, after such emotion as Icould not behold without sharing in; and as to my aunt, she weptwith all her heart; ‘that done Em’ly good, and she begun to mend.But, the language of that country was quite gone from her, and she wasforced to make signs. So she went on, getting better from day to day,slow, but sure, and trying to learn the names of common things—names as she seemed never to have heerd in all her life—till one eveningcome, when she was a-setting at her window, looking at a little girl atplay upon the beach. And of a sudden this child held out her hand, andsaid, what would be in English, “Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!”—for you are to unnerstand that they used at first to call her “Prettylady”, as the general way in that country is, and that she had taught ‘emto call her “Fisherman’s daughter” instead. The child says of a sudden,“Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!” Then Em’ly unnerstands her;and she answers, bursting out a-crying; and it all comes back!

‘When Em’ly got strong again,’ said Mr. Peggotty, after anothershort interval of silence, ‘she cast about to leave that good youngcreetur, and get to her own country. The husband was come home,then; and the two together put her aboard a small trader bound toLeghorn, and from that to France. She had a little money, but it wasless than little as they would take for all they done. I’m a’most gladon it, though they was so poor! What they done, is laid up wheerneither moth or rust doth corrupt, and wheer thieves do not breakthrough nor steal. Mas’r Davy, it’ll outlast all the treasure in the wureld.

‘Em’ly got to France, and took service to wait on travelling ladies at ainn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day, that snake.—Let him nevercome nigh me. I doen’t know what hurt I might do him!—Soon as shesee him, without him seeing her, all her fear and wildness returned uponher, and she fled afore the very breath he draw’d. She come to England,and was set ashore at Dover.

‘I doen’t know,” said Mr. Peggotty, ‘for sure, when her ‘art begunto fail her; but all the way to England she had thowt to come to herdear home. Soon as she got to England she turned her face tow’rds it.But, fear of not being forgiv, fear of being pinted at, fear of some ofus being dead along of her, fear of many things, turned her from it,

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kiender by force, upon the road: “Uncle, uncle,” she says to me, “thefear of not being worthy to do what my torn and bleeding breast solonged to do, was the most fright’ning fear of all! I turned back,when my ‘art was full of prayers that I might crawl to the old door-step, in the night, kiss it, lay my wicked face upon it, and theer befound dead in the morning.”

‘She come,’ said Mr. Peggotty, dropping his voice to an awe-strickenwhisper, ‘to London. She—as had never seen it in her life—alone—without a penny—young—so pretty—come to London. A’most themoment as she lighted heer, all so desolate, she found (as she be-lieved) a friend; a decent woman as spoke to her about the needle-work as she had been brought up to do, about finding plenty of itfur her, about a lodging fur the night, and making secret inquirationconcerning of me and all at home, tomorrow. When my child,’ hesaid aloud, and with an energy of gratitude that shook him fromhead to foot, ‘stood upon the brink of more than I can say or thinkon—Martha, trew to her promise, saved her.’

I could not repress a cry of joy.‘Mas’r Davy!’ said he, gripping my hand in that strong hand of his,

‘it was you as first made mention of her to me. I thankee, sir! Shewas arnest. She had know’d of her bitter knowledge wheer to watchand what to do. She had done it. And the Lord was above all! Shecome, white and hurried, upon Em’ly in her sleep. She says to her,“Rise up from worse than death, and come with me!” Them belong-ing to the house would have stopped her, but they might as soonhave stopped the sea. “Stand away from me,” she says, “I am a ghostthat calls her from beside her open grave!” She told Em’ly she had seenme, and know’d I loved her, and forgive her. She wrapped her, hasty, inher clothes. She took her, faint and trembling, on her arm. She heededno more what they said, than if she had had no ears. She walked among‘em with my child, minding only her; and brought her safe out, in thedead of the night, from that black pit of ruin!

‘She attended on Em’ly,’ said Mr. Peggotty, who had released myhand, and put his own hand on his heaving chest; ‘she attended tomy Em’ly, lying wearied out, and wandering betwixt whiles, till latenext day. Then she went in search of me; then in search of you, Mas’rDavy. She didn’t tell Em’ly what she come out fur, lest her ‘art should

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fail, and she should think of hiding of herself. How the cruel ladyknow’d of her being theer, I can’t say. Whether him as I have spoke somuch of, chanced to see ‘em going theer, or whether (which is mostlike, to my thinking) he had heerd it from the woman, I doen’tgreatly ask myself. My niece is found.

‘All night long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘we have been together, Em’lyand me. ’Tis little (considering the time) as she has said, in wureds,through them broken-hearted tears; ’tis less as I have seen of her dearface, as grow’d into a woman’s at my hearth. But, all night long, herarms has been about my neck; and her head has laid heer; and weknows full well, as we can put our trust in one another, ever more.’

He ceased to speak, and his hand upon the table rested there in per-fect repose, with a resolution in it that might have conquered lions.

‘It was a gleam of light upon me, Trot,’ said my aunt, drying hereyes, ‘when I formed the resolution of being godmother to yoursister Betsey Trotwood, who disappointed me; but, next to that,hardly anything would have given me greater pleasure, than to begodmother to that good young creature’s baby!’

Mr. Peggotty nodded his understanding of my aunt’s feelings, butcould not trust himself with any verbal reference to the subject of hercommendation. We all remained silent, and occupied with our ownreflections (my aunt drying her eyes, and now sobbing convulsively,and now laughing and calling herself a fool); until I spoke.

‘You have quite made up your mind,’ said I to Mr. Peggotty, ‘as tothe future, good friend? I need scarcely ask you.’

‘Quite, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned; ‘and told Em’ly. Theer’s mightycountries, fur from heer. Our future life lays over the sea.’

‘They will emigrate together, aunt,’ said I.‘Yes!’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a hopeful smile. ‘No one can’t re-

proach my darling in Australia. We will begin a new life over theer!’I asked him if he yet proposed to himself any time for going away.‘I was down at the Docks early this morning, sir,’ he returned, ‘to

get information concerning of them ships. In about six weeks or twomonths from now, there’ll be one sailing—I see her thismorning—went aboard—and we shall take our passage in her.’

‘Quite alone?’ I asked.‘Aye, Mas’r Davy!’ he returned. ‘My sister, you see, she’s that fond of

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you and yourn, and that accustomed to think on’y of her own country,that it wouldn’t be hardly fair to let her go. Besides which, theer’s oneshe has in charge, Mas’r Davy, as doen’t ought to be forgot.’

‘Poor Ham!’ said I.‘My good sister takes care of his house, you see, ma’am, and he

takes kindly to her,’ Mr. Peggotty explained for my aunt’s betterinformation. ‘He’ll set and talk to her, with a calm spirit, wen it’slike he couldn’t bring himself to open his lips to another. Poor fel-low!’ said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘theer’s not so much lefthim, that he could spare the little as he has!’

‘And Mrs. Gummidge?’ said I.‘Well, I’ve had a mort of consideration, I do tell you,’ returned

Mr. Peggotty, with a perplexed look which gradually cleared as hewent on, ‘concerning of Missis Gummidge. You see, wen MissisGummidge falls a-thinking of the old ‘un, she an’t what you may callgood company. Betwixt you and me, Mas’r Davy—and you, ma’am—wen Mrs. Gummidge takes to wimicking,’—our old country wordfor crying,—’she’s liable to be considered to be, by them as didn’tknow the old ‘un, peevish-like. Now I did know the old ‘un,’ saidMr. Peggotty, ‘and I know’d his merits, so I unnerstan’ her; but ‘tan’tentirely so, you see, with others—nat’rally can’t be!’

My aunt and I both acquiesced.‘Wheerby,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘my sister might—I doen’t say she would,

but might—find Missis Gummidge give her a leetle trouble now-and-again. Theerfur ‘tan’t my intentions to moor Missis Gummidge ‘longwith them, but to find a Beein’ fur her wheer she can fisherate for her-self.’ (A Beein’ signifies, in that dialect, a home, and to fisherate is toprovide.) ‘Fur which purpose,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I means to make hera ‘lowance afore I go, as’ll leave her pretty comfort’ble. She’s the faithfullestof creeturs. ‘Tan’t to be expected, of course, at her time of life, and beinglone and lorn, as the good old Mawther is to be knocked about aboardship,and in the woods and wilds of a new and fur-away country. So that’swhat I’m a-going to do with her.’

He forgot nobody. He thought of everybody’s claims and strivings,but his own.

‘Em’ly,’ he continued, ‘will keep along with me—poor child, she’ssore in need of peace and rest!—until such time as we goes upon our

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voyage. She’ll work at them clothes, as must be made; and I hope hertroubles will begin to seem longer ago than they was, wen she findsherself once more by her rough but loving uncle.’

My aunt nodded confirmation of this hope, and imparted greatsatisfaction to Mr. Peggotty.

‘Theer’s one thing furder, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, putting his hand in his breast-pocket, and gravely taking out the little paper bundle I had seen before, which heunrolled on the table. ‘Theer’s these here banknotes—fifty pound, and ten. Tothem I wish to add the money as she come away with. I’ve asked her about that(but not saying why), and have added of it up. I an’t a scholar. Would you be sokind as see how ’tis?’

He handed me, apologetically for his scholarship, a piece of paper,and observed me while I looked it over. It was quite right.

‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, taking it back. ‘This money, if you doen’tsee objections, Mas’r Davy, I shall put up jest afore I go, in a coverdirected to him; and put that up in another, directed to his mother. Ishall tell her, in no more wureds than I speak to you, what it’s theprice on; and that I’m gone, and past receiving of it back.’

I told him that I thought it would be right to do so—that I wasthoroughly convinced it would be, since he felt it to be right.

‘I said that theer was on’y one thing furder,’ he proceeded with agrave smile, when he had made up his little bundle again, and put itin his pocket; ‘but theer was two. I warn’t sure in my mind, wen Icome out this morning, as I could go and break to Ham, of my ownself, what had so thankfully happened. So I writ a letter while I wasout, and put it in the post-office, telling of ‘em how all was as ’tis;and that I should come down tomorrow to unload my mind ofwhat little needs a-doing of down theer, and, most-like, take myfarewell leave of Yarmouth.’

‘And do you wish me to go with you?’ said I, seeing that he leftsomething unsaid.

‘If you could do me that kind favour, Mas’r Davy,’ he replied. ‘Iknow the sight on you would cheer ‘em up a bit.’

My little Dora being in good spirits, and very desirous that I shouldgo—as I found on talking it over with her—I readily pledged myselfto accompany him in accordance with his wish. Nextmorning, consequently, we were on the Yarmouth coach, and again

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travelling over the old ground.As we passed along the familiar street at night—Mr. Peggotty, in

despite of all my remonstrances, carrying my bag—I glanced intoOmer and Joram’s shop, and saw my old friend Mr. Omer there,smoking his pipe. I felt reluctant to be present, when Mr. Peggottyfirst met his sister and Ham; and made Mr. Omer my excuse forlingering behind.

‘How is Mr. Omer, after this long time?’ said I, going in.He fanned away the smoke of his pipe, that he might get a better

view of me, and soon recognized me with great delight.‘I should get up, sir, to acknowledge such an honour as this visit,’ said he,

‘only my limbs are rather out of sorts, and I am wheeled about. With theexception of my limbs and my breath, howsoever, I am as hearty as a man canbe, I’m thankful to say.’

I congratulated him on his contented looks and his good spirits,and saw, now, that his easy-chair went on wheels.

‘It’s an ingenious thing, ain’t it?’ he inquired, following the direc-tion of my glance, and polishing the elbow with his arm. ‘It runs aslight as a feather, and tracks as true as a mail-coach. Bless you, mylittle Minnie—my grand-daughter you know, Minnie’s child—putsher little strength against the back, gives it a shove, and away we go,as clever and merry as ever you see anything! And I tell you what—it’s a most uncommon chair to smoke a pipe in.’

I never saw such a good old fellow to make the best of a thing, andfind out the enjoyment of it, as Mr. Omer. He was as radiant, as ifhis chair, his asthma, and the failure of his limbs, were the variousbranches of a great invention for enhancing the luxury of a pipe.

‘I see more of the world, I can assure you,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘in thischair, than ever I see out of it. You’d be surprised at the number ofpeople that looks in of a day to have a chat. You really would! There’stwice as much in the newspaper, since I’ve taken to this chair, as thereused to be. As to general reading, dear me, what a lot of it I do getthrough! That’s what I feel so strong, you know! If it had been myeyes, what should I have done? If it had been my ears, what should Ihave done? Being my limbs, what does it signify? Why, my limbsonly made my breath shorter when I used ‘em. And now, if I want togo out into the street or down to the sands, I’ve only got to call Dick,

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Joram’s youngest ‘prentice,and away I go in my own carriage, like the Lord Mayor of London.’

He half suffocated himself with laughing here.‘Lord bless you!’ said Mr. Omer, resuming his pipe, ‘a man must

take the fat with the lean; that’s what he must make up his mind to,in this life. Joram does a fine business. Ex-cellent business!’

‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said I.‘I knew you would be,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘And Joram and Minnie

are like Valentines. What more can a man expect? What’s his limbsto that!’

His supreme contempt for his own limbs, as he sat smoking, wasone of the pleasantest oddities I have ever encountered.

‘And since I’ve took to general reading, you’ve took to general writ-ing, eh, sir?’ said Mr. Omer, surveying me admiringly. ‘What a lovelywork that was of yours! What expressions in it! I read it every word—every word. And as to feeling sleepy! Not at all!’

I laughingly expressed my satisfaction, but I must confess that Ithought this association of ideas significant.

‘I give you my word and honour, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘that when Ilay that book upon the table, and look at it outside; compact in threeseparate and indiwidual wollumes—one, two, three; I am as proudas Punch to think that I once had the honour of being connectedwith your family. And dear me, it’s a long time ago, now, ain’t it?Over at Blunderstone. With a pretty little party laid along with theother party. And you quite a small party then, yourself. Dear, dear!’

I changed the subject by referring to Emily. After assuring himthat I did not forget how interested he had always been in her, andhow kindly he had always treated her, I gave him a general account ofher restoration to her uncle by the aid of Martha; which I knewwould please the old man. He listened with the utmost attention,and said, feelingly, when I had done:

‘I am rejoiced at it, sir! It’s the best news I have heard for many aday. Dear, dear, dear! And what’s going to be undertook for thatunfortunate young woman, Martha, now?’

‘You touch a point that my thoughts have been dwelling on sinceyesterday,’ said I, ‘but on which I can give you no information yet,Mr. Omer. Mr. Peggotty has not alluded to it, and I have a delicacy

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in doing so. I am sure he has not forgotten it. He forgets nothingthat is disinterested and good.’

‘Because you know,’ said Mr. Omer, taking himself up, where hehad left off, ‘whatever is done, I should wish to be a member of. Putme down for anything you may consider right, and let me know. Inever could think the girl all bad, and I am glad to find she’s not. Sowill my daughter Minnie be. Young women are contradictorycreatures in some things—her mother was just the same as her—buttheir hearts are soft and kind. It’s all show with Minnie, about Martha.Why she should consider it necessary to make any show, I don’t un-dertake to tell you. But it’s all show, bless you. She’d do her anykindness in private. So, put me down for whatever you may considerright, will you be so good? and drop me a line where to forward it.Dear me!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘when a man is drawing on to a time oflife, where the two ends of life meet; when he finds himself, howeverhearty he is, being wheeled about for the second time, in a speechesof go-cart; he should be over-rejoiced to do a kindness if he can. Hewants plenty. And I don’t speak of myself, particular,’ said Mr. Omer,‘because, sir, the way I look at it is, that we are all drawing on to thebottom of the hill, whatever age we are, on account of time neverstanding still for a single moment. So let us always do a kindness,and be over-rejoiced. To be sure!’

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it on a ledge in theback of his chair, expressly made for its reception.

‘There’s Em’ly’s cousin, him that she was to have been married to,’ saidMr. Omer, rubbing his hands feebly, ‘as fine a fellow as there is in Yarmouth!He’ll come and talk or read to me, in the evening, for an hour togethersometimes. That’s a kindness, I should call it! All his life’s a kindness.’

‘I am going to see him now,’ said I.‘Are you?’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Tell him I was hearty, and sent my

respects. Minnie and Joram’s at a ball. They would be as proud to seeyou as I am, if they was at home. Minnie won’t hardly go out at all,you see, “on account of father”, as she says. So I swore tonight, that ifshe didn’t go, I’d go to bed at six. In consequence of which,’ Mr.Omer shook himself and his chair with laughter at the success of hisdevice, ‘she and Joram’s at a ball.’

I shook hands with him, and wished him good night.

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‘Half a minute, sir,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘If you was to go withoutseeing my little elephant, you’d lose the best of sights. You never seesuch a sight! Minnie!’ A musical little voice answered, from some-where upstairs, ‘I am coming, grandfather!’ and a pretty little girlwith long, flaxen,curling hair, soon came running into the shop.

‘This is my little elephant, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, fondling the child.‘Siamese breed, sir. Now, little elephant!’

The little elephant set the door of the parlour open, enabling me tosee that, in these latter days, it was converted into a bedroom for Mr.Omer who could not be easily conveyed upstairs; and then hid herpretty forehead, and tumbled her long hair, against the back of Mr.Omer’s chair.

‘The elephant butts, you know, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, winking, ‘whenhe goes at a object. Once, elephant. Twice. Three times!’

At this signal, the little elephant, with a dexterity that was next tomarvellous in so small an animal, whisked the chair round with Mr.Omer in it, and rattled it off, pell-mell, into the parlour, withouttouching the door-post: Mr. Omer indescribably enjoying the per-formance, and looking back at me on the road as if it were the trium-phant issue of his life’s exertions.

After a stroll about the town I went to Ham’s house. Peggotty hadnow removed here for good; and had let her own house to the suc-cessor of Mr. Barkis in the carrying business, who had paid her verywell for the good-will, cart, and horse. I believe the very same slowhorse that Mr. Barkis drove was still at work.

I found them in the neat kitchen, accompanied by Mrs. Gummidge,who had been fetched from the old boat by Mr. Peggotty himself. Idoubt if she could have been induced to desert her post, by anyoneelse. He had evidently told them all. Both Peggotty and Mrs.Gummidge had their aprons to their eyes, and Ham had just steppedout ‘to take a turn on the beach’. He presently came home, very gladto see me; and I hope they were all the better for my being there. Wespoke, with some approach to cheerfulness, of Mr. Peggotty’s grow-ing rich in a new country, and of the wonders he would describe inhis letters. We said nothing of Emily by name, but distantly referredto her more than once. Ham was the serenest of the party.

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But, Peggotty told me, when she lighted me to a little chamberwhere the Crocodile book was lying ready for me on the table, that healways was the same. She believed (she told me, crying) that he wasbroken-hearted; though he was as full of courage as of sweetness, andworked harder and better than any boat-builder in any yard in all thatpart. There were times, she said, of an evening, when he talked of theirold life in the boat-house; and then he mentioned Emily as a child. But,he never mentioned her as a woman.

I thought I had read in his face that he would like to speak to mealone. I therefore resolved to put myself in his way next evening, ashe came home from his work. Having settled this with myself, I fellasleep. That night, for the first time in all those many nights, thecandle was taken out of the window, Mr. Peggotty swung in his oldhammock in the old boat, and the wind murmured with the oldsound round his head.

All next day, he was occupied in disposing of his fishing-boat andtackle; in packing up, and sending to London by waggon, such of hislittle domestic possessions as he thought would be useful to him; andin parting with the rest, or bestowing them on Mrs. Gummidge. Shewas with him all day. As I had a sorrowful wish to see the old placeonce more, before it was locked up, I engaged to meet them there inthe evening. But I so arranged it, as that I should meet Ham first.

It was easy to come in his way, as I knew where he worked. I methim at a retired part of the sands, which I knew he would cross, andturned back with him, that he might have leisure to speak to me if hereally wished. I had not mistaken the expression of his face. We hadwalked but a little way together, when he said, without looking at me:

‘Mas’r Davy, have you seen her?’‘Only for a moment, when she was in a swoon,’ I softly answered.We walked a little farther, and he said:‘Mas’r Davy, shall you see her, d’ye think?’‘It would be too painful to her, perhaps,’ said I.‘I have thowt of that,’ he replied. ‘So ’twould, sir, so ’twould.’‘But, Ham,’ said I, gently, ‘if there is anything that I could write to

her, for you, in case I could not tell it; if there is anything you would wishto make known to her through me; I should consider it a sacred trust.’

‘I am sure on’t. I thankee, sir, most kind! I think theer is some-thing I could wish said or wrote.’

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‘What is it?’We walked a little farther in silence, and then he spoke.‘’Tan’t that I forgive her. ‘Tan’t that so much. ’Tis more as I beg of

her to forgive me, for having pressed my affections upon her. Oddtimes, I think that if I hadn’t had her promise fur to marry me, sir,she was that trustful of me, in a friendly way, that she’d have told mewhat was struggling in her mind, and would have counselled withme, and I might have saved her.’

I pressed his hand. ‘Is that all?’‘Theer’s yet a something else,’ he returned, ‘if I can say it, Mas’r

Davy.’We walked on, farther than we had walked yet, before he spoke

again. He was not crying when he made the pauses I shall express bylines. He was merely collecting himself to speak very plainly.

‘I loved her—and I love the mem’ry of her—too deep—to be ableto lead her to believe of my own self as I’m a happy man. I couldonly be happy—by forgetting of her—and I’m afeerd I couldn’t hardlybear as she should be told I done that. But if you, being so full oflearning, Mas’r Davy, could think of anything to say as might bringher to believe I wasn’t greatly hurt: still loving of her, and mourningfor her: anything as might bring her to believe as I was not tired ofmy life, and yet was hoping fur to see her without blame, wheer thewicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest—anything aswould ease her sorrowful mind, and yet not make her think as Icould ever marry, or as ’twas possible that anyone could ever be tome what she was—I should ask of you to say that—with my prayersfor her—that was so dear.’

I pressed his manly hand again, and told him I would charge myselfto do this as well as I could.

‘I thankee, sir,’ he answered. ‘’Twas kind of you to meet me. ’Twaskind of you to bear him company down. Mas’r Davy, I unnerstan’very well, though my aunt will come to Lon’on afore they sail, andthey’ll unite once more, that I am not like to see him agen. I fare tofeel sure on’t. We doen’t say so, but so ‘twill be, and better so. Thelast you see on him—the very last—will you give him the lovingestduty and thanks of the orphan, as he was ever more than a father to?’

This I also promised, faithfully.

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‘I thankee agen, sir,’ he said, heartily shaking hands. ‘I know wheeryou’re a-going. Good-bye!’

With a slight wave of his hand, as though to explain to me that hecould not enter the old place, he turned away. As I looked after hisfigure, crossing the waste in the moonlight, I saw him turn his facetowards a strip of silvery light upon the sea, and pass on, looking atit, until he was a shadow in the distance.

The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached; and,on entering, I found it emptied of all its furniture, saving one of theold lockers, on which Mrs. Gummidge, with a basket on her knee,was seated, looking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned his elbow on therough chimney-piece, and gazed upon a few expiring embers in thegrate; but he raised his head, hopefully, on my coming in, and spokein a cheery manner.

‘Come, according to promise, to bid farewell to ‘t, eh, Mas’r Davy?’he said, taking up the candle. ‘Bare enough, now, an’t it?’

‘Indeed you have made good use of the time,’ said I.‘Why, we have not been idle, sir. Missis Gummidge has worked

like a—I doen’t know what Missis Gummidge an’t worked like,’said Mr. Peggotty, looking at her, at a loss for a sufficiently approv-ing simile.

Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no observation.‘Theer’s the very locker that you used to sit on, ‘long with Em’ly!’

said Mr. Peggotty, in a whisper. ‘I’m a-going to carry it away withme, last of all. And heer’s your old little bedroom, see, Mas’r Davy!A’most as bleak tonight, as ‘art could wish!’

In truth, the wind, though it was low, had a solemn sound, andcrept around the deserted house with a whispered wailing that wasvery mournful. Everything was gone, down to the little mirror withthe oyster-shell frame. I thought of myself, lying here, when thatfirst great change was being wrought at home. I thought of the blue-eyed child who had enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth: and afoolish, fearful fancy came upon me of his being near at hand, andliable to be met at any turn.

‘’Tis like to be long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, in a low voice, ‘afore theboat finds new tenants. They look upon ‘t, down beer, as being un-fortunate now!’

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‘Does it belong to anybody in the neighbourhood?’ I asked.‘To a mast-maker up town,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I’m a-going to

give the key to him tonight.’We looked into the other little room, and came back to Mrs.

Gummidge, sitting on the locker, whom Mr. Peggotty, putting thelight on the chimney-piece, requested to rise, that he might carry itoutside the door before extinguishing the candle.

‘Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, suddenly deserting her basket, andclinging to his arm ‘my dear Dan’l, the parting words I speak in thishouse is, I mustn’t be left behind. Doen’t ye think of leaving mebehind, Dan’l! Oh, doen’t ye ever do it!’

Mr. Peggotty, taken aback, looked from Mrs. Gummidge to me,and from me to Mrs. Gummidge, as if he had been awakened froma sleep.

‘Doen’t ye, dearest Dan’l, doen’t ye!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, fer-vently. ‘Take me ‘long with you, Dan’l, take me ‘long with you andEm’ly! I’ll be your servant, constant and trew. If there’s slaves in themparts where you’re a-going, I’ll be bound to you for one, and happy,but doen’t ye leave me behind, Dan’l, that’s a deary dear!’

‘My good soul,’ said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘you doen’tknow what a long voyage, and what a hard life ’tis!’

‘Yes, I do, Dan’l! I can guess!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge. ‘But myparting words under this roof is, I shall go into the house and die, ifI am not took. I can dig, Dan’l. I can work. I can livehard. I can be loving and patient now—more than you think, Dan’l,if you’ll on’y try me. I wouldn’t touch the ‘lowance, not if I wasdying of want, Dan’l Peggotty; but I’ll go with you andEm’ly, if you’ll on’y let me, to the world’s end! I know how ’tis; Iknow you think that I am lone and lorn; but, deary love, ‘tan’t so nomore! I ain’t sat here, so long, a-watching, and a-thinking of yourtrials, without some good being done me. Mas’r Davy, speak to himfor me! I knows his ways, and Em’ly’s, and I knows their sorrows,and can be a comfort to ‘em, some odd times, and labour for ‘emallus! Dan’l, deary Dan’l, let me go ‘long with you!’

And Mrs. Gummidge took his hand, and kissed it with a homelypathos and affection, in a homely rapture of devotion and gratitude,that he well deserved.

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We brought the locker out, extinguished the candle, fastened thedoor on the outside, and left the old boat close shut up, a dark speckin the cloudy night. Next day, when we were returning to Londonoutside the coach, Mrs. Gummidge and her basket were on the seatbehind, and Mrs. Gummidge was happy.

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CHAPTER 52I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION

When the time Mr. Micawber had appointed so mysteriously, waswithin four-and-twenty hours of being come, my aunt and I con-sulted how we should proceed; for my aunt was very unwilling toleave Dora. Ah! how easily I carried Dora up and down stairs, now!

We were disposed, notwithstanding Mr. Micawber’s stipulation formy aunt’s attendance, to arrange that she should stay at home, and berepresented by Mr. Dick and me. In short, we had resolved to take thiscourse, when Dora again unsettled us by declaring that she never wouldforgive herself, and never would forgive her bad boy, if my aunt re-mained behind, on any pretence.

‘I won’t speak to you,’ said Dora, shaking her curls at my aunt.‘I’ll be disagreeable! I’ll make Jip bark at you all day. I shall be surethat you really are a cross old thing, if you don’t go!’

‘Tut, Blossom!’ laughed my aunt. ‘You know you can’t do with-out me!’

‘Yes, I can,’ said Dora. ‘You are no use to me at all. You never runup and down stairs for me, all day long. You never sit and tell mestories about Doady, when his shoes were worn out, and he wascovered with dust—oh, what a poor little mite of a fellow! You neverdo anything at all to please me, do you, dear?’ Dora made haste tokiss my aunt, and say, ‘Yes, you do! I’m only joking!’—lest my auntshould think she really meant it.

‘But, aunt,’ said Dora, coaxingly, ‘now listen. You must go. I shalltease you, ‘till you let me have my own way about it. I shall lead mynaughty boy such a life, if he don’t make you go. I shall make myselfso disagreeable—and so will Jip! You’ll wish you had gone, like agood thing, for ever and ever so long, if you don’t go. Besides,’ said

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Dora, putting back her hair, and looking wonderingly at my auntand me, ‘why shouldn’t you both go? I am not very ill indeed. Am I?’

‘Why, what a question!’ cried my aunt.‘What a fancy!’ said I.‘Yes! I know I am a silly little thing!’ said Dora, slowly looking

from one of us to the other, and then putting up her pretty lips tokiss us as she lay upon her couch. ‘Well, then, you must both go, orI shall not believe you; and then I shall cry!’

I saw, in my aunt’s face, that she began to give way now, and Dorabrightened again, as she saw it too.

‘You’ll come back with so much to tell me, that it’ll take at least aweek to make me understand!’ said Dora. ‘Because I know I shan’tunderstand, for a length of time, if there’s any business in it. And there’ssure to be some business in it! If there’s anything to add up, besides, Idon’t know when I shall make it out; and my bad boy will look somiserable all the time. There! Now you’ll go, won’t you? You’ll only begone one night, and Jip will take care of me while you are gone. Doadywill carry me upstairs before you go, and I won’t come down again tillyou come back; and you shall take Agnes a dreadfully scolding letterfrom me, because she has never been to see us!’

We agreed, without any more consultation, that we would bothgo, and that Dora was a little Impostor, who feigned to be ratherunwell, because she liked to be petted. She was greatly pleased, andvery merry; and we four, that is to say, my aunt, Mr. Dick, Traddles,and I, went down to Canterbury by the Dover mail that night.

At the hotel where Mr. Micawber had requested us to await him,which we got into, with some trouble, in the middle of the night, Ifound a letter, importing that he would appear in the morning punc-tually at half past nine. After which, we went shivering, at that un-comfortable hour, to our respective beds, through various close pas-sages; which smelt as if they had been steeped, for ages, in a solutionof soup and stables.

Early in the morning, I sauntered through the dear old tranquil streets,and again mingled with the shadows of the venerable gateways andchurches. The rooks were sailing about the cathedral towers; and thetowers themselves, overlooking many a long unaltered mile of the richcountry and its pleasant streams, were cutting the bright morning air,

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as if there were no such thing as change on earth. Yet the bells, whenthey sounded, told me sorrowfully of change in everything; told me oftheir own age, and my pretty Dora’s youth; and of the many, neverold, who had lived and loved and died, while the reverberations of thebells had hummed through the rusty armour of the Black Prince hang-ing up within, and, motes upon the deep of Time, had lost themselvesin air, as circles do in water.

I looked at the old house from the corner of the street, but did notgo nearer to it, lest, being observed, I might unwittingly do any harmto the design I had come to aid. The early sun was striking edgewiseon its gables and lattice-windows, touching them with gold; andsome beams of its old peace seemed to touch my heart.

I strolled into the country for an hour or so, and then returned bythe main street, which in the interval had shaken off its last night’ssleep. Among those who were stirring in the shops, I saw my ancientenemy the butcher, now advanced to top-boots and a baby, and inbusiness for himself. He was nursing the baby, and appeared to be abenignant member of society.

We all became very anxious and impatient, when we sat down tobreakfast. As it approached nearer and nearer to half past nine o’clock,our restless expectation of Mr. Micawber increased. At last we madeno more pretence of attending to the meal, which, except with Mr.Dick, had been a mere form from the first; but my aunt walked upand down the room, Traddles sat upon the sofa affecting to readthe paper with his eyes on the ceiling; and I looked out of thewindow to give early notice of Mr. Micawber’s coming. Nor had Ilong to watch, for, at the first chime of the half hour, he appearedin the street.

‘Here he is,’ said I, ‘and not in his legal attire!’My aunt tied the strings of her bonnet (she had come down to

breakfast in it), and put on her shawl, as if she were ready for any-thing that was resolute and uncompromising. Traddles buttoned hiscoat with a determined air. Mr. Dick, disturbed by these formidableappearances, but feeling it necessary to imitate them,pulled his hat, with both hands, as firmly over his ears as he possiblycould; and instantly took it off again, to welcome Mr. Micawber.

‘Gentlemen, and madam,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘good morning!

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My dear sir,’ to Mr. Dick, who shook hands with him violently, ‘youare extremely good.’

‘Have you breakfasted?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘Have a chop!’‘Not for the world, my good sir!’ cried Mr. Micawber, stopping

him on his way to the bell; ‘appetite and myself, Mr. Dixon, havelong been strangers.’

Mr. Dixon was so well pleased with his new name, and appearedto think it so obliging in Mr. Micawber to confer it upon him, thathe shook hands with him again, and laughed rather childishly.

‘Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘attention!’Mr. Dick recovered himself, with a blush.‘Now, sir,’ said my aunt to Mr. Micawber, as she put on her gloves,

‘we are ready for Mount Vesuvius, or anything else, as soon as youplease.’

‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘I trust you will shortly witnessan eruption. Mr. Traddles, I have your permission, I believe, to men-tion here that we have been in communication together?’

‘It is undoubtedly the fact, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, to whom Ilooked in surprise. ‘Mr. Micawber has consulted me in reference towhat he has in contemplation; and I have advised him to the best ofmy judgement.’

‘Unless I deceive myself, Mr. Traddles,’ pursued Mr. Micawber,‘what I contemplate is a disclosure of an important nature.’

‘Highly so,’ said Traddles.‘Perhaps, under such circumstances, madam and gentlemen,’ said

Mr. Micawber, ‘you will do me the favour to submit yourselves, forthe moment, to the direction of one who, however unworthy to beregarded in any other light but as a Waif and Stray upon the shore ofhuman nature, is still your fellow-man, though crushed out of hisoriginal form by individual errors, and the accumulative force of acombination of circumstances?’

‘We have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘andwill do what you please.’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘your confidence is not,at the existing juncture, ill-bestowed. I would beg to be allowed astart of five minutes by the clock; and then to receive the presentcompany, inquiring for Miss Wickfield, at the office of Wickfield

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and Heep, whose Stipendiary I am.’My aunt and I looked at Traddles, who nodded his approval.‘I have no more,’ observed Mr. Micawber, ‘to say at present.’With which, to my infinite surprise, he included us all in a com-

prehensive bow, and disappeared; his manner being extremely dis-tant, and his face extremely pale.

Traddles only smiled, and shook his head (with his hair standingupright on the top of it), when I looked to him for an explanation; soI took out my watch, and, as a last resource, counted off the five min-utes. My aunt, with her own watch in her hand, did the like. When thetime was expired, Traddles gave her his arm; and we all went out to-gether to the old house, without saying one word on the way.

We found Mr. Micawber at his desk, in the turret office on theground floor, either writing, or pretending to write, hard. The largeoffice-ruler was stuck into his waistcoat, and was not so well con-cealed but that a foot or more of that instrument protruded from hisbosom, like a new kind of shirt-frill.

As it appeared to me that I was expected to speak, I said aloud:‘How do you do, Mr. Micawber?’‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, gravely, ‘I hope I see you

well?’‘Is Miss Wickfield at home?’ said I.‘Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bed, sir, of a rheumatic fever,’ he re-

turned; ‘but Miss Wickfield, I have no doubt, will be happy to seeold friends. Will you walk in, sir?’

He preceded us to the dining-room—the first room I had enteredin that house—and flinging open the door of Mr. Wickfield’s formeroffice, said, in a sonorous voice:

‘Miss Trotwood, Mr. David Copperfield, Mr. Thomas Traddles,and Mr. Dixon!’

I had not seen Uriah Heep since the time of the blow. Our visitastonished him, evidently; not the less, I dare say, because it aston-ished ourselves. He did not gather his eyebrows together, for he hadnone worth mentioning; but he frowned to that degree that he al-most closed his small eyes, while the hurried raising of his grisly handto his chin betrayed some trepidation or surprise. This was only whenwe were in the act of entering his room, and when I caught a glance

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at him over my aunt’s shoulder. A moment afterwards, he was asfawning and as humble as ever.

‘Well, I am sure,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unexpected pleasure!To have, as I may say, all friends round St. Paul’s at once, is a treatunlooked for! Mr. Copperfield, I hope I see you well, and—if I mayumbly express myself so—friendly towards them as is ever yourfriends, whether or not. Mrs. Copperfield, sir, I hope she’s gettingon. We have been made quite uneasy by the poor accounts we havehad of her state, lately, I do assure you.’

I felt ashamed to let him take my hand, but I did not know yetwhat else to do.

‘Things are changed in this office, Miss Trotwood, since I was anumble clerk, and held your pony; ain’t they?’ said Uriah, with his sick-liest smile. ‘But I am not changed, Miss Trotwood.’

‘Well, sir,’ returned my aunt, ‘to tell you the truth, I think you arepretty constant to the promise of your youth; if that’s any satisfac-tion to you.’

‘Thank you, Miss Trotwood,’ said Uriah, writhing in his ungainlymanner, ‘for your good opinion! Micawber, tell ‘em to let Miss Agnesknow—and mother. Mother will be quite in a state, when she seesthe present company!’ said Uriah, setting chairs.

‘You are not busy, Mr. Heep?’ said Traddles, whose eye the cunningred eye accidentally caught, as it at once scrutinized and evaded us.

‘No, Mr. Traddles,’ replied Uriah, resuming his official seat, andsqueezing his bony hands, laid palm to palm between his bony knees.‘Not so much so as I could wish. But lawyers, sharks, and leeches, arenot easily satisfied, you know! Not but what myself and Micawberhave our hands pretty full, in general, on account of Mr.Wickfield’s being hardly fit for any occupation, sir. But it’s a pleasureas well as a duty, I am sure, to work for him. You’ve not been inti-mate with Mr. Wickfield, I think, Mr. Traddles? I believe I’ve only had thehonour of seeing you once myself?’

‘No, I have not been intimate with Mr. Wickfield,’ returnedTraddles; ‘or I might perhaps have waited on you long ago, Mr. Heep.’

There was something in the tone of this reply, which made Uriahlook at the speaker again, with a very sinister and suspicious expres-sion. But, seeing only Traddles, with his good-natured face, simple

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manner, and hair on end, he dismissed it as he replied, with a jerk ofhis whole body, but especially his throat:

‘I am sorry for that, Mr. Traddles. You would have admired him asmuch as we all do. His little failings would only have endeared himto you the more. But if you would like to hear my fellow-partnereloquently spoken of, I should refer you to Copperfield. The familyis a subject he’s very strong upon, if you never heard him.’

I was prevented from disclaiming the compliment (if I should havedone so, in any case), by the entrance of Agnes, now ushered in byMr. Micawber. She was not quite so self-possessed as usual, I thought;and had evidently undergone anxiety and fatigue. But her earnestcordiality, and her quiet beauty, shone with the gentler lustre for it.

I saw Uriah watch her while she greeted us; and he reminded me ofan ugly and rebellious genie watching a good spirit. In the mean-while, some slight sign passed between Mr. Micawber and Traddles;and Traddles, unobserved except by me, went out.

‘Don’t wait, Micawber,’ said Uriah.Mr. Micawber, with his hand upon the ruler in his breast, stood

erect before the door, most unmistakably contemplating one of hisfellow-men, and that man his employer.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Uriah. ‘Micawber! did you hearme tell you not to wait?’

‘Yes!’ replied the immovable Mr. Micawber.‘Then why do you wait?’ said Uriah.‘Because I—in short, choose,’ replied Mr. Micawber, with a burst.Uriah’s cheeks lost colour, and an unwholesome paleness, still faintly

tinged by his pervading red, overspread them. He looked at Mr.Micawber attentively, with his whole face breathing short and quickin every feature.

‘You are a dissipated fellow, as all the world knows,’ he said, withan effort at a smile, ‘and I am afraid you’ll oblige me to get rid ofyou. Go along! I’ll talk to you presently.’

‘If there is a scoundrel on this earth,’ said Mr. Micawber, suddenlybreaking out again with the utmost vehemence, ‘with whom I havealready talked too much, that scoundrel’s name is—Heep!’

Uriah fell back, as if he had been struck or stung. Looking slowlyround upon us with the darkest and wickedest expression that his

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face could wear, he said, in a lower voice:‘Oho! This is a conspiracy! You have met here by appointment!

You are playing Booty with my clerk, are you, Copperfield? Now,take care. You’ll make nothing of this. We understand each other,you and me. There’s no love between us. You were always a puppywith a proud stomach, from your first coming here; and you envyme my rise, do you? None of your plots against me; I’ll counterplotyou! Micawber, you be off. I’ll talk to you presently.’

‘Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘there is a sudden change in this fellow, inmore respects than the extraordinary one of his speaking the truth inone particular, which assures me that he is brought to bay. Deal withhim as he deserves!’

‘You are a precious set of people, ain’t you?’ said Uriah, in the samelow voice, and breaking out into a clammy heat, which he wipedfrom his forehead, with his long lean hand, ‘to buy over my clerk,who is the very scum of society,—as you yourself were, Copperfield,you know it, before anyone had charity on you,—todefame me with his lies? Miss Trotwood, you had better stop this; orI’ll stop your husband shorter than will be pleasant to you. I won’tknow your story professionally, for nothing, old lady! Miss Wickfield,if you have any love for your father, you had better not join thatgang. I’ll ruin him, if you do. Now, come! I have got some of youunder the harrow. Think twice, before it goes over you. Think twice,you, Micawber, if you don’t want to be crushed. I recommend youto take yourself off, and be talked to presently,you fool! while there’s time to retreat. Where’s mother?’ he said,suddenly appearing to notice, with alarm, the absence of Traddles,and pulling down the bell-rope. ‘Fine doings in a person’s own house!’

‘Mrs. Heep is here, sir,’ said Traddles, returning with that worthymother of a worthy son. ‘I have taken the liberty of making myselfknown to her.’

‘Who are you to make yourself known?’ retorted Uriah. ‘And whatdo you want here?’

‘I am the agent and friend of Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ said Traddles, ina composed and business-like way. ‘And I have a power of attorneyfrom him in my pocket, to act for him in all matters.’

‘The old ass has drunk himself into a state of dotage,’ said Uriah,

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turning uglier than before, ‘and it has been got from him by fraud!’‘Something has been got from him by fraud, I know,’ returned

Traddles quietly; ‘and so do you, Mr. Heep. We will refer that ques-tion, if you please, to Mr. Micawber.’

‘Ury—!’ Mrs. Heep began, with an anxious gesture.‘You hold your tongue, mother,’ he returned; ‘least said, soonest

mended.’‘But, my Ury—’‘Will you hold your tongue, mother, and leave it to me?’Though I had long known that his servility was false, and all his

pretences knavish and hollow, I had had no adequate conception ofthe extent of his hypocrisy, until I now saw him with his mask off.The suddenness with which he dropped it, when he perceived that itwas useless to him; the malice, insolence, and hatred, he revealed; theleer with which he exulted, even at this moment, in the evil he haddone—all this time being desperate too, and at his wits’ end for themeans of getting the better of us—though perfectly consistent withthe experience I had of him, at first took even me by surprise, who hadknown him so long, and disliked him so heartily.

I say nothing of the look he conferred on me, as he stood eyeing us,one after another; for I had always understood that he hated me, and Iremembered the marks of my hand upon his cheek. But when his eyespassed on to Agnes, and I saw the rage with which he felt his powerover her slipping away, and the exhibition, in their disappointment, ofthe odious passions that had led him to aspire to one whose virtues hecould never appreciate or care for, I was shocked by the mere thoughtof her having lived, an hour, within sight of such a man.

After some rubbing of the lower part of his face, and some look-ing at us with those bad eyes, over his grisly fingers, he made onemore address to me, half whining, and half abusive.

‘You think it justifiable, do you, Copperfield, you who pride your-self so much on your honour and all the rest of it, to sneak about myplace, eaves-dropping with my clerk? If it had been me, I shouldn’thave wondered; for I don’t make myself out a gentleman (though Inever was in the streets either, as you were, according to Micawber),but being you!—And you’re not afraid of doing this, either? Youdon’t think at all of what I shall do, in return; or of getting yourself

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into trouble for conspiracy and so forth? Very well. We shall see! Mr.What’s-your-name, you were going to refer some question toMicawber. There’s your referee. Why don’t you make him speak? Hehas learnt his lesson, I see.’

Seeing that what he said had no effect on me or any of us, he sat onthe edge of his table with his hands in his pockets, and one of hissplay feet twisted round the other leg, waiting doggedly for whatmight follow.

Mr. Micawber, whose impetuosity I had restrained thus far withthe greatest difficulty, and who had repeatedly interposed with thefirst syllable of scoun-drel! without getting to the second, now burstforward, drew the ruler from his breast (apparently as a defensiveweapon), and produced from his pocket a foolscap document, foldedin the form of a large letter. Opening this packet, with his old flour-ish, and glancing at the contents, as if he cherished an artistic admira-tion of their style of composition, he began to read as follows:

‘“Dear Miss Trotwood and gentlemen—”’

‘Bless and save the man!’ exclaimed my aunt in a low voice. ‘He’dwrite letters by the ream, if it was a capital offence!’

Mr. Micawber, without hearing her, went on.

‘“In appearing before you to denounce probably the most con-summate Villain that has ever existed,”’ Mr. Micawber, without look-ing off the letter, pointed the ruler, like a ghostly truncheon, at UriahHeep, ‘“I ask no consideration for myself. The victim, from mycradle, of pecuniary liabilities to which I have been unable to re-spond, I have ever been the sport and toy of debasing circumstances.Ignominy, Want, Despair, and Madness, have, collectively or sepa-rately, been the attendants of my career.”’

The relish with which Mr. Micawber described himself as a preyto these dismal calamities, was only to be equalled by the emphasiswith which he read his letter; and the kind of homage he rendered toit with a roll of his head, when he thought he had hit a sentence veryhard indeed.

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‘“In an accumulation of Ignominy, Want, Despair, and Madness, Ientered the office—or, as our lively neighbour the Gaul would termit, the Bureau—of the Firm, nominally conducted under the appel-lation of Wickfield and—Heep, but in reality, wielded by—Heepalone. Heep, and only Heep, is the mainspring of that machine. Heep,and only Heep, is the Forger and the Cheat.”’

Uriah, more blue than white at these words, made a dart at theletter, as if to tear it in pieces. Mr. Micawber, with a perfect miracleof dexterity or luck, caught his advancing knuckles withthe ruler, and disabled his right hand. It dropped at the wrist, as if itwere broken. The blow sounded as if it had fallen on wood.

‘The Devil take you!’ said Uriah, writhing in a new way with pain.‘I’ll be even with you.’

‘Approach me again, you—you—you Heep of infamy,’ gasped Mr.Micawber, ‘and if your head is human, I’ll break it. Come on, come on!’

I think I never saw anything more ridiculous—I was sensible of it,even at the time—than Mr. Micawber making broad-sword guardswith the ruler, and crying, ‘Come on!’ while Traddles and I pushedhim back into a corner, from which, as often as we got him into it,he persisted in emerging again.

His enemy, muttering to himself, after wringing his wounded handfor sometime, slowly drew off his neck-kerchief and bound it up;then held it in his other hand, and sat upon his table with his sullenface looking down.

Mr. Micawber, when he was sufficiently cool, proceeded with hisletter.

‘“The stipendiary emoluments in consideration of which I enteredinto the service of—Heep,”’ always pausing before that word anduttering it with astonishing vigour, ‘“were not defined, beyond thepittance of twenty-two shillings and six per week. The rest was leftcontingent on the value of my professional exertions; in other andmore expressive words, on the baseness of my nature, the cupidity ofmy motives, the poverty of my family, the general moral (or ratherimmoral) resemblance between myself and—Heep. Need I say, that

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it soon became necessary for me to solicit from—Heep—pecuniaryadvances towards the support of Mrs. Micawber, and our blightedbut rising family? Need I say that this necessity had been foreseenby—Heep? That those advances were secured by I.O.U.’s and othersimilar acknowledgements, known to the legal institutions of thiscountry? And that I thus became immeshed in the web he had spunfor my reception?”’

Mr. Micawber’s enjoyment of his epistolary powers, in describingthis unfortunate state of things, really seemed to outweigh any painor anxiety that the reality could have caused him. He read on:

‘“Then it was that—Heep—began to favour me with just so muchof his confidence, as was necessary to the discharge of his infernalbusiness. Then it was that I began, if I may so Shakespearianly ex-press myself, to dwindle, peak, and pine. I found that my serviceswere constantly called into requisition for the falsification of busi-ness, and the mystification of an individual whom I will designate asMr. W. That Mr. W. was imposed upon, kept in ignorance, anddeluded, in every possible way; yet, that all this while, the ruffian—Heep—was professing unbounded gratitude to, and unboundedfriendship for, that much-abused gentleman. This was bad enough;but, as the philosophic Dane observes, with that universal applicabil-ity which distinguishes the illustrious ornament of the ElizabethanEra, worse remains behind!”’

Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy roundingoff with a quotation, that he indulged himself, and us, with a secondreading of the sentence, under pretence of having lost his place.

‘“It is not my intention,”’ he continued reading on, ‘“to enter on adetailed list, within the compass of the present epistle (though it isready elsewhere), of the various malpractices of a minor nature, af-fecting the individual whom I have denominated Mr. W., to which Ihave been a tacitly consenting party. My object, when the contestwithin myself between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker,existence and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage of myopportunities to discover and expose the major malpractices com-

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mitted, to that gentleman’s grievous wrong and injury, by—Heep.Stimulated by the silent monitor within, and by a no less touchingand appealing monitor without—to whom I will briefly refer as MissW.—I entered on a not unlaborious task of clandestine investigation,protracted—now, to the best of my knowledge, information, andbelief, over a period exceeding twelve calendar months.”’

He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parliament; andappeared majestically refreshed by the sound of the words.

‘“My charges against—Heep,”’ he read on, glancing at him, anddrawing the ruler into a convenient position under his left arm, incase of need, ‘“are as follows.”’

We all held our breath, I think. I am sure Uriah held his.

‘“First,”’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘“When Mr. W.’s faculties and memoryfor business became, through causes into which it is not necessary orexpedient for me to enter, weakened and confused,—Heep—design-edly perplexed and complicated the whole of the official transac-tions. When Mr. W. was least fit to enter on business, —Heep wasalways at hand to force him to enter on it. He obtained Mr. W.’ssignature under such circumstances to documents of importance, rep-resenting them to be other documents of no importance. He in-duced Mr. W. to empower him to draw out, thus, one particularsum of trust-money, amounting to twelve six fourteen, two and nine,and employed it to meet pretended business charges and deficiencieswhich were either already provided for, or had never really existed.He gave this proceeding, throughout, the appearance of having origi-nated in Mr. W.’s own dishonest intention, and of having been ac-complished by Mr. W.’s own dishonest act; and has used it, eversince, to torture and constrain him.”’

‘You shall prove this, you Copperfield!’ said Uriah, with a threat-ening shake of the head. ‘All in good time!’

‘Ask—Heep—Mr. Traddles, who lived in his house after him,’ saidMr. Micawber, breaking off from the letter; ‘will you?’

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‘The fool himself—and lives there now,’ said Uriah, disdainfully.‘Ask—Heep—if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house,’ said

Mr. Micawber; ‘will you?’I saw Uriah’s lank hand stop, involuntarily, in the scraping of his

chin.‘Or ask him,’ said Mr. Micawber,’if he ever burnt one there. If he

says yes, and asks you where the ashes are, refer him to WilkinsMicawber, and he will hear of something not at all to his advantage!’

The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber delivered him-self of these words, had a powerful effect in alarming the mother;who cried out, in much agitation:

‘Ury, Ury! Be umble, and make terms, my dear!’‘Mother!’ he retorted, ‘will you keep quiet? You’re in a fright, and

don’t know what you say or mean. Umble!’ he repeated, looking atme, with a snarl; ‘I’ve umbled some of ‘em for a pretty long timeback, umble as I was!’

Mr. Micawber, genteelly adjusting his chin in his cravat, presentlyproceeded with his composition.

‘“Second. Heep has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowl-edge, information, and belief—”’

‘But that won’t do,’ muttered Uriah, relieved. ‘Mother, you keepquiet.’

‘We will endeavour to provide something that will do, and do foryou finally, sir, very shortly,’ replied Mr. Micawber.

‘“Second. Heep has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowl-edge, information, and belief, systematically forged, to various en-tries, books, and documents, the signature of Mr. W.; and has dis-tinctly done so in one instance, capable of proof by me. To wit, inmanner following, that is to say:”’

Again, Mr. Micawber had a relish in this formal piling up of words,which, however ludicrously displayed in his case, was, I must say,not at all peculiar to him. I have observed it, in the course of my life,in numbers of men. It seems to me to be a general rule. In the taking

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of legal oaths, for instance, deponents seem to enjoy themselves might-ily when they come to several good words in succession, for the ex-pression of one idea; as, that they utterly detest, abominate, and ab-jure, or so forth; and the old anathemas were made relishing on thesame principle. We talk about the tyranny of words, but we like totyrannize over them too; we are fond of having a large superfluousestablishment of words to wait upon us on great occasions; we thinkit looks important, and sounds well. As we are not particular aboutthe meaning of our liveries on state occasions, if they be but fine andnumerous enough, so, the meaning or necessity of our words is asecondary consideration, if there be but a great parade of them. Andas individuals get into trouble by making too great a show of liveries,or as slaves when they are too numerous rise against their masters, soI think I could mention a nation that has got into many great diffi-culties, and will get into many greater, from maintaining too large aretinue of words.

Mr. Micawber read on, almost smacking his lips:

‘“To wit, in manner following, that is to say. Mr. W. being infirm,and it being within the bounds of probability that his decease mightlead to some discoveries, and to the downfall of —Heep’s—powerover the W. family,—as I, Wilkins Micawber, the undersigned, as-sume—unless the filial affection of his daughter could be secretlyinfluenced from allowing any investigation of the partnership affairsto be ever made, the said—Heep—deemed it expedient to have abond ready by him, as from Mr. W., for the before-mentioned sumof twelve six fourteen, two and nine, with interest, stated therein tohave been advanced by—Heep—to Mr. W. to save Mr. W. fromdishonour; though really the sum was never advanced by him, andhas long been replaced. The signatures to this instrument purportingto be executed by Mr. W. and attested by Wilkins Micawber, areforgeries by—Heep. I have, in my possession, in his hand and pocket-book, several similar imitations of Mr. W.’s signature, here and theredefaced by fire, but legible to anyone. I never attested any such docu-ment. And I have the document itself, in my possession.”’

Uriah Heep, with a start, took out of his pocket a bunch of keys,

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and opened a certain drawer; then, suddenly bethought himself of whathe was about, and turned again towards us, without looking in it.

‘“And I have the document,”’ Mr. Micawber read again, lookingabout as if it were the text of a sermon, ‘“in my possession,—that isto say, I had, early this morning, when this was written, but havesince relinquished it to Mr. Traddles.”’

‘It is quite true,’ assented Traddles.‘Ury, Ury!’ cried the mother, ‘be umble and make terms. I know my

son will be umble, gentlemen, if you’ll give him time to think. Mr.Copperfield, I’m sure you know that he was always very umble, sir!’

It was singular to see how the mother still held to the old trick,when the son had abandoned it as useless.

‘Mother,’ he said, with an impatient bite at the handkerchief in whichhis hand was wrapped, ‘you had better take and fire a loaded gun at me.’

‘But I love you, Ury,’ cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no doubt shedid; or that he loved her, however strange it may appear; though, tobe sure, they were a congenial couple. ‘And I can’t bear to hear youprovoking the gentlemen, and endangering of yourself more. I toldthe gentleman at first, when he told me upstairs it was come to light,that I would answer for your being umble, and making amends. Oh,see how umble I am, gentlemen, and don’t mind him!’

‘Why, there’s Copperfield, mother,’ he angrily retorted, pointinghis lean finger at me, against whom all his animosity was levelled, asthe prime mover in the discovery; and I did not undeceive him; ‘there’sCopperfield, would have given you a hundred pound to say less thanyou’ve blurted out!’

‘I can’t help it, Ury,’ cried his mother. ‘I can’t see you running intodanger, through carrying your head so high. Better be umble, as youalways was.’

He remained for a little, biting the handkerchief, and then said tome with a scowl:

‘What more have you got to bring forward? If anything, go on with it.What do you look at me for?’

Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letter, glad to revert to aperformance with which he was so highly satisfied.

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‘“Third. And last. I am now in a condition to show, by—Heep’s—false books, and—Heep’s—real memoranda, beginning with the par-tially destroyed pocket-book (which I was unable to comprehend, atthe time of its accidental discovery by Mrs. Micawber, on our takingpossession of our present abode, in the locker or bin devoted to thereception of the ashes calcined on our domestic hearth), that theweaknesses, the faults, the very virtues, the parental affections, andthe sense of honour, of the unhappy Mr. W. have been for years actedon by, and warped to the base purposes of—Heep. That Mr. W. hasbeen for years deluded and plundered, in every conceivable manner,to the pecuniary aggrandisement of the avaricious, false, and grasp-ing—Heep. That the engrossing object of—Heep—was, next to gain,to subdue Mr. and Miss W. (of his ulterior views in reference to thelatter I say nothing) entirely to himself. That his last act, completedbut a few months since, was to induce Mr. W. to execute a relin-quishment of his share in the partnership, and even a bill of sale onthe very furniture of his house, in consideration of a certain annuity,to be well and truly paid by—Heep—on the four common quarter-days in each and every year. That these meshes; beginning with alarm-ing and falsified accounts of the estate of which Mr. W. is the re-ceiver, at a period when Mr. W. had launched into imprudent and ill-judged speculations, and may not have had the money, for which hewas morally and legally responsible, in hand; going on with pre-tended borrowings of money at enormous interest, really comingfrom—Heep—and by—Heep—fraudulently obtained or withheldfrom Mr. W. himself, on pretence of such speculations or otherwise;perpetuated by a miscellaneous catalogue of unscrupulous chicaner-ies —gradually thickened, until the unhappy Mr. W. could see noworld beyond. Bankrupt, as he believed, alike in circumstances, in allother hope, and in honour, his sole reliance was upon the monster inthe garb of man,”’—Mr. Micawber made a good deal of this, as anew turn of expression,— ‘”who, by making himself necessary tohim, had achieved his destruction. All this I undertake to show. Prob-ably much more!”’

I whispered a few words to Agnes, who was weeping, half joyfully,half sorrowfully, at my side; and there was a movement among us, as if

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Mr. Micawber had finished. He said, with exceeding gravity, ‘Pardonme,’ and proceeded, with a mixture of the lowest spirits and the mostintense enjoyment, to the peroration of his letter.

‘“I have now concluded. It merely remains for me to substantiatethese accusations; and then, with my ill-starred family, to disappearfrom the landscape on which we appear to be an encumbrance. Thatis soon done. It may be reasonably inferred that our baby will firstexpire of inanition, as being the frailest member of our circle; andthat our twins will follow next in order. So be it! For myself, myCanterbury Pilgrimage has done much; imprisonment on civil pro-cess, and want, will soon do more. I trust that the labour and hazardof an investigation—of which the smallest results have been slowlypieced together, in the pressure of arduous avocations, under grind-ing penurious apprehensions, at rise of morn, at dewy eve, in theshadows of night, under the watchful eye of one whom it were su-perfluous to call Demon—combined with the struggle of parentalPoverty to turn it, when completed, to the right account, may be asthe sprinkling of a few drops of sweet water on my funeral pyre. I askno more. Let it be, in justice, merely said of me, as of a gallant andeminent naval Hero, with whom I have no pretensions to cope, thatwhat I have done, I did, in despite of mercenary and selfish objects,

For England, home, and Beauty.

‘“Remaining always, &c. &c., WILKINS MICAWBER.”’

Much affected, but still intensely enjoying himself, Mr. Micawberfolded up his letter, and handed it with a bow to my aunt, as some-thing she might like to keep.

There was, as I had noticed on my first visit long ago, an iron safein the room. The key was in it. A hasty suspicion seemed to strikeUriah; and, with a glance at Mr. Micawber, he went to it, and threwthe doors clanking open. It was empty.

‘Where are the books?’ he cried, with a frightful face. ‘Some thiefhas stolen the books!’

Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. ‘I did, when I got

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the key from you as usual—but a little earlier—and opened it thismorning.’

‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Traddles. ‘They have come into my posses-sion. I will take care of them, under the authority I mentioned.’

‘You receive stolen goods, do you?’ cried Uriah.‘Under such circumstances,’ answered Traddles, ‘yes.’What was my astonishment when I beheld my aunt, who had

been profoundly quiet and attentive, make a dart at Uriah Heep, andseize him by the collar with both hands!

‘You know what I want?’ said my aunt.‘A strait-waistcoat,’ said he.‘No. My property!’ returned my aunt. ‘Agnes, my dear, as long as

I believed it had been really made away with by your father, Iwouldn’t—and, my dear, I didn’t, even to Trot, as he knows —breathea syllable of its having been placed here for investment. But, now Iknow this fellow’s answerable for it, and I’ll have it! Trot, come andtake it away from him!’

Whether my aunt supposed, for the moment, that he kept her prop-erty in his neck-kerchief, I am sure I don’t know; but she certainlypulled at it as if she thought so. I hastened to put myself betweenthem, and to assure her that we would all take care that he shouldmake the utmost restitution of everything he had wrongly got. This,and a few moments’ reflection, pacified her; but she was not at alldisconcerted by what she had done (though I cannot say as much forher bonnet) and resumed her seat composedly.

During the last few minutes, Mrs. Heep had been clamouring toher son to be ‘umble’; and had been going down on her knees to allof us in succession, and making the wildest promises. Her son sat herdown in his chair; and, standing sulkily by her, holding her arm withhis hand, but not rudely, said to me, with a ferocious look:

‘What do you want done?’‘I will tell you what must be done,’ said Traddles.‘Has that Copperfield no tongue?’ muttered Uriah, ‘I would do a

good deal for you if you could tell me, without lying, that some-body had cut it out.’

‘My Uriah means to be umble!’ cried his mother. ‘Don’t mindwhat he says, good gentlemen!’

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‘What must be done,’ said Traddles, ‘is this. First, the deed ofrelinquishment, that we have heard of, must be given over to menow—here.’

‘Suppose I haven’t got it,’ he interrupted.‘But you have,’ said Traddles; ‘therefore, you know, we won’t suppose

so.’ And I cannot help avowing that this was the first occasion on whichI really did justice to the clear head, and the plain, patient, practical goodsense, of my old schoolfellow. ‘Then,’ said Traddles, ‘you must prepareto disgorge all that your rapacity has become possessed of, and to makerestoration to the last farthing. All the partnership books and papersmust remain in our possession; all your books and papers; all moneyaccounts andsecurities, of both kinds. In short, everything here.’

‘Must it? I don’t know that,’ said Uriah. ‘I must have time to thinkabout that.’

‘Certainly,’ replied Traddles; ‘but, in the meanwhile, and until ev-erything is done to our satisfaction, we shall maintain possession ofthese things; and beg you—in short, compel you—tokeep to your own room, and hold no communication with anyone.’

‘I won’t do it!’ said Uriah, with an oath.‘Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention,’ observed Traddles; ‘and

though the law may be longer in righting us, and may not be able toright us so completely as you can, there is no doubt of its punishing you.Dear me, you know that quite as well as I! Copperfield, will you goround to the Guildhall, and bring a couple of officers?’

Here, Mrs. Heep broke out again, crying on her knees to Agnes tointerfere in their behalf, exclaiming that he was very humble, and itwas all true, and if he didn’t do what we wanted, she would, andmuch more to the same purpose; being half frantic with fears for herdarling. To inquire what he might have done, if he had had any bold-ness, would be like inquiring what a mongrel cur might do, if it hadthe spirit of a tiger. He was a coward, from head to foot; and showedhis dastardly nature through his sullenness and mortification, as muchas at any time of his mean life.

‘Stop!’ he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with his hand.‘Mother, hold your noise. Well! Let ‘em have that deed. Go andfetch it!’

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‘Do you help her, Mr. Dick,’ said Traddles, ‘if you please.’Proud of his commission, and understanding it, Mr. Dick accom-

panied her as a shepherd’s dog might accompany a sheep. But, Mrs.Heep gave him little trouble; for she not only returned with thedeed, but with the box in which it was, where we found a banker’sbook and some other papers that were afterwards serviceable.

‘Good!’ said Traddles, when this was brought. ‘Now, Mr. Heep, youcan retire to think: particularly observing, if you please, that I declare toyou, on the part of all present, that there is only one thing to be done;that it is what I have explained; and that it must be done without delay.’

Uriah, without lifting his eyes from the ground, shuffled acrossthe room with his hand to his chin, and pausing at the door, said:

‘Copperfield, I have always hated you. You’ve always been an up-start, and you’ve always been against me.’

‘As I think I told you once before,’ said I, ‘it is you who have been,in your greed and cunning, against all the world. It may be profitableto you to reflect, in future, that there never were greed and cunningin the world yet, that did not do too much, and overreach them-selves. It is as certain as death.’

‘Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same schoolwhere I picked up so much umbleness), from nine o’clock to eleven,that labour was a curse; and from eleven o’clock to one, that it was ablessing and a cheerfulness, and a dignity, and I don’t know what all,eh?’ said he with a sneer. ‘You preach, about as consistent as they did.Won’t umbleness go down? I shouldn’t have got round my gentle-man fellow-partner without it, I think.—Micawber, you old bully,I’ll pay you!’

Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extended finger,and making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at thedoor, then addressed himself to me, and proffered me the satisfac-tion of ‘witnessing the re-establishment of mutual confidence be-tween himself and Mrs. Micawber’. After which, he invited the com-pany generally to the contemplation of that affecting spectacle.

‘The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawberand myself, is now withdrawn,’ said Mr. Micawber; ‘and my chil-dren and the Author of their Being can once more come in contacton equal terms.’

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As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to show thatwe were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would per-mit, I dare say we should all have gone, but that it was necessary forAgnes to return to her father, as yet unable to bear more than thedawn of hope; and for someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping.So, Traddles remained for the latter purpose, to be presently relievedby Mr. Dick; and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr.Micawber. As I parted hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owedso much, and thought from what she had been saved, perhaps, thatmorning—her better resolution notwithstanding—I felt devoutlythankful for the miseries of my younger days which had brought meto the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.

His house was not far off; and as the street door opened into thesitting-room, and he bolted in with a precipitation quite his own, wefound ourselves at once in the bosom of the family. Mr. Micawberexclaiming, ‘Emma! my life!’ rushed into Mrs. Micawber’s arms.Mrs. Micawber shrieked, and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace.Miss Micawber, nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber’slast letter to me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The twinstestified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demonstra-tions. Master Micawber, whose disposition appeared to have beensoured by early disappointment, and whose aspect had become mo-rose, yielded to his better feelings, and blubbered.

‘Emma!’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘The cloud is past from my mind.Mutual confidence, so long preserved between us once, is restored,to know no further interruption. Now, welcome poverty!’ cried Mr.Micawber, shedding tears. ‘Welcome misery, welcome houselessness,welcome hunger, rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence willsustain us to the end!’

With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in achair, and embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of bleakprospects, which appeared, to the best of my judgement, to be any-thing but welcome to them; and calling upon them to come out intoCanterbury and sing a chorus, as nothing else was left for their support.

But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions, faintedaway, the first thing to be done, even before the chorus could beconsidered complete, was to recover her. This my aunt and Mr.

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Micawber did; and then my aunt was introduced, and Mrs. Micawberrecognized me.

‘Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said the poor lady, giving meher hand, ‘but I am not strong; and the removal of the late misun-derstanding between Mr. Micawber and myself was at first too muchfor me.’

‘Is this all your family, ma’am?’ said my aunt.‘There are no more at present,’ returned Mrs. Micawber.‘Good gracious, I didn’t mean that, ma’am,’ said my aunt. ‘I mean,

are all these yours?’‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is a true bill.’‘And that eldest young gentleman, now,’ said my aunt, musing,

‘what has he been brought up to?’‘It was my hope when I came here,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘to have

got Wilkins into the Church: or perhaps I shall express my meaningmore strictly, if I say the Choir. But there was no vacancy for a tenorin the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent; and hehas—in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses,rather than in sacred edifices.’

‘But he means well,’ said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.‘I dare say, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Micawber, ‘that he means par-

ticularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his mean-ing, in any given direction whatsoever.’

Master Micawber’s moroseness of aspect returned upon him again,and he demanded, with some temper, what he was to do? Whetherhe had been born a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than hehad been born a bird? Whether he could go into the next street, andopen a chemist’s shop? Whether he could rush to the next assizes,and proclaim himself a lawyer? Whether he could come out by forceat the opera, and succeed by violence? Whether he could do any-thing, without being brought up to something?

My aunt mused a little while, and then said:‘Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to

emigration.’‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘it was the dream of my youth,

and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.’ I am thoroughly per-suaded, by the by, that he had never thought of it in his life.

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‘Aye?’ said my aunt, with a glance at me. ‘Why, what a thing itwould be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, ifyou were to emigrate now.’

‘Capital, madam, capital,’ urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.‘That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr.

Copperfield,’ assented his wife.‘Capital?’ cried my aunt. ‘But you are doing us a great ser-

vice—have done us a great service, I may say, for surely muchwill come out of the fire—and what could we do for you, thatwould be half so good as to find the capital?’

‘I could not receive it as a gift,’ said Mr. Micawber, full of fire andanimation, ‘but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five percent interest, per annum, upon my personal liability—say my notesof hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months, respectively,to allow time for something to turn up—’

‘Could be? Can be and shall be, on your own terms,’ returned myaunt, ‘if you say the word. Think of this now, both of you. Here aresome people David knows, going out to Australia shortly. If youdecide to go, why shouldn’t you go in the same ship? You may helpeach other. Think of this now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Takeyour time, and weigh it well.’

‘There is but one question, my dear ma’am, I could wish to ask,’said Mrs. Micawber. ‘The climate, I believe, is healthy?’

‘Finest in the world!’ said my aunt.‘Just so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘Then my question arises. Now,

are the circumstances of the country such, that a man of Mr.Micawber’s abilities would have a fair chance of rising in the socialscale? I will not say, at present, might he aspire to be Governor, oranything of that sort; but would there be a reasonable opening forhis talents to develop themselves—that would be amply sufficient—and find their own expansion?’

‘No better opening anywhere,’ said my aunt, ‘for a man who con-ducts himself well, and is industrious.’

‘For a man who conducts himself well,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber,with her clearest business manner, ‘and is industrious. Precisely. It isevident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action for Mr.Micawber!’

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‘I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,’ said Mr. Micawber,‘that it is, under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, formyself and family; and that something of an extraordinary naturewill turn up on that shore. It is no distance—comparatively speak-ing; and though consideration is due to the kindness of your pro-posal, I assure you that is a mere matter of form.’

Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most sanguine ofmen, looking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micawber presently dis-coursed about the habits of the kangaroo! Shall I ever recall thatstreet of Canterbury on a market-day, without recalling him, as hewalked back with us; expressing, in the hardy roving manner he as-sumed, the unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the land;and looking at the bullocks, as they came by, with the eye ofan Australian farmer!

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CHAPTER 53ANOTHER RETROSPECT

I MUST PAUSE YET ONCE AGAIN. O, my child-wife, there is a figure inthe moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in itsinnocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me—turn tolook upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground!

I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, inour cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used toit in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, inweeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary,weary while.

They have left off telling me to ‘wait a few days more’. I have begun tofear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.

He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that hemisses in his mistress, something that enlivened him and madehim younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbsare feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, butcreeps near her as he lies on Dora’s bed—she sitting at the bed-side—and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty orcomplaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that herdear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunthas no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, thelittle bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk aboutour wedding-day, and all that happy time.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be—and in alllife, within doors and without—when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderlyroom, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her

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little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus;but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. IT ISMORNING; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s hands, shows mehow her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long andbright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that netshe wears.

‘Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,’ she says, when Ismile; ‘but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; andbecause, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in theglass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock ofit. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!’

‘That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I hadgiven you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.’

‘Ah! but I didn’t like to tell you,’ says Dora, ‘then, how I had criedover them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can runabout again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those placeswhere we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the oldwalks? And not forget poor papa?’

‘Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make hasteto get well, my dear.’

‘Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don’t know!’

IT IS EVENING; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with thesame face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is asmile upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up anddown stairs now. She lies here all the day.

‘Doady!’‘My dear Dora!’‘You won’t think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what

you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield’s not beingwell? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.’

‘I will write to her, my dear.’‘Will you?’‘Directly.’‘What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed,

my dear, it’s not a whim. It’s not a foolish fancy. I want, very muchindeed, to see her!’

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‘I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure tocome.’

‘You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?’ Dora whispers,with her arm about my neck.

‘How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your emptychair?’

‘My empty chair!’ She clings to me for a little while, in silence.‘And you really miss me, Doady?’ looking up, and brightly smiling.‘Even poor, giddy, stupid me?’

‘My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?’‘Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!’ creeping closer to me,

and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then isquiet, and quite happy.

‘Quite!’ she says. ‘Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that Iwant very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.’

‘Except to get well again, Dora.’‘Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think—you know I always was a silly

little thing!—that that will never be!’‘Don’t say so, Dora! Dearest love, don’t think so!’‘I won’t, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my

dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife’s empty chair!’

IT IS NIGHT; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been amongus for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat withDora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, butDora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.

Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? Theyhave told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts—but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I can-not master it. I have withdrawn by myself, many times today, toweep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between theliving and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious andcompassionate history. I have tried to resign myself, and to consolemyself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what Icannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutelycome. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see herlove for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale linger-

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ing shadow of belief that she will be spared.‘I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something

I have often thought of saying, lately. You won’t mind?’ with agentle look.

‘Mind, my darling?’‘Because I don’t know what you will think, or what you may have

thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady,dear, I am afraid I was too young.’

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes,and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a strickenheart, that she is speaking of herself as past.

‘I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don’t mean in years only, butin experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly littlecreature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only lovedeach other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think Iwas not fit to be a wife.’

I try to stay my tears, and to reply, ‘Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to bea husband!’

‘I don’t know,’ with the old shake of her curls. ‘Perhaps! But if Ihad been more fit to be married I might have made you more so,too. Besides, you are very clever, and I never was.’

‘We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.’‘I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would

have wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less acompanion for him. He would have been more and more sensible ofwhat was wanting in his home. She wouldn’t have improved. It isbetter as it is.’

‘Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every wordseems a reproach!’

‘No, not a syllable!’ she answers, kissing me. ‘Oh, my dear, younever deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachfulword to you, in earnest—it was all the merit I had, except beingpretty—or you thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?’

‘Very! Very!’‘Don’t cry! Is my chair there?’‘In its old place.’‘Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one

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promise. I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tellAgnes so, and send her up to me; and while I speak to her, let no onecome—not even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want tospeak to Agnes, quite alone.’

I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, formy grief.

‘I said that it was better as it is!’ she whispers, as she holds me inher arms. ‘Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have lovedyour child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she wouldso have tried and disappointed you, that you might not have beenable to love her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. Itis much better as it is!’

Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her themessage. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed offlannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high andclear. As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisci-plined heart is chastened heavily—heavily.

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all thosesecret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of everylittle trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles makethe sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is theimage of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love,and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich.Would it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as aboy and a girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply!

How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife’s old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of hishouse, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, andwhines to go upstairs.

‘Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!’He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim

eyes to my face.‘Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!’He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and

with a plaintive cry, is dead.‘Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!’

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—That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears, thatawful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised towards Heaven!

‘Agnes?’It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all

things are blotted out of my remembrance.

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CHAPTER 54Mr. MICAWBER’STRANSACTIONS

THIS IS NOT THE TIME at which I am to enter on the state of my mindbeneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the Future was walledup before me, that the energy and action of my life were at an end,that I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I came to thinkso, I say, but not in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that.If the events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in thebeginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it ispossible (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen atonce into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fullyknew my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that itssharpest pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself byresting on all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tenderstory that was closed for ever.

When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how itcame to be agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of mypeace in change and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. Thespirit of Agnes so pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in thattime of sorrow, that I assume I may refer the project to her influence.But her influence was so quiet that I know no more.

And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association ofher with the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic fore-shadowing of what she would be to me, in the calamity that was tohappen in the fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In allthat sorrow, from the moment, never to be forgotten, when shestood before me with her upraised hand, she was like a sacred pres-

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ence in my lonely house. When the Angel of Death alighted there,my child-wife fell asleep—they told me so when I could bear to hearit—on her bosom, with a smile. From my swoon, I first awoke to aconsciousness of her compassionate tears, her words of hope andpeace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer region nearerHeaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its pain.

Let me go on.I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among

us from the first. The ground now covering all that could perish ofmy departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the‘final pulverization of Heep’; and for the departure of the emigrants.

At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friendsin my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes,and I. We proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber’s house;where, and at Mr. Wickfield’s, my friend had been labouring ever sinceour explosive meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in,in my black clothes, she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal ofgood in Mrs. Micawber’s heart, which had not been dunned out of itin all those many years.

‘Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,’ was my aunt’s first salutation after wewere seated. ‘Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of mine?’

‘My dear madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘perhaps I cannot bet-ter express the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humbleservant, and I may add our children, have jointly and severally arrived,than by borrowing the language of an illustrious poet, to reply that ourBoat is on the shore, and our Bark is on the sea.’

‘That’s right,’ said my aunt. ‘I augur all sort of good from yoursensible decision.’

‘Madam, you do us a great deal of honour,’ he rejoined. He thenreferred to a memorandum. ‘With respect to the pecuniary assistanceenabling us to launch our frail canoe on the ocean of enterprise, Ihave reconsidered that important business-point; and would beg topropose my notes of hand—drawn, it is needless to stipulate, onstamps of the amounts respectively required by the various Acts ofParliament applying to such securities—at eighteen, twenty-four, andthirty months. The proposition I originally submitted, was twelve,eighteen, and twenty-four; but I am apprehensive that such an ar-

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rangement might not allow sufficient time for the requisite amountof—Something—to turn up. We might not,’ said Mr. Micawber,looking round the room as if it represented several hundred acres ofhighly cultivated land, ‘on the first responsibility becoming due, havebeen successful in our harvest, or we might not have got our harvestin. Labour, I believe, is sometimes difficult to obtain in that portionof our colonial possessions where it will be our lot to combat withthe teeming soil.’

‘Arrange it in any way you please, sir,’ said my aunt.‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘Mrs. Micawber and myself are deeply sen-

sible of the very considerate kindness of our friends and patrons.What I wish is, to be perfectly business-like, and perfectly punctual.Turning over, as we are about to turn over, an entirely new leaf; andfalling back, as we are now in the act of falling back, for a Spring ofno common magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect,besides being an example to my son, that these arrangements shouldbe concluded as between man and man.’

I don’t know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this lastphrase; I don’t know that anybody ever does, or did; but he appearedto relish it uncommonly, and repeated, with an impressive cough, ‘asbetween man and man’.

‘I propose,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘Bills—a convenience to the mer-cantile world, for which, I believe, we are originally indebted to theJews, who appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much to dowith them ever since—because they are negotiable. But if a Bond, orany other description of security, would be preferred, I should behappy to execute any such instrument. As between man and man.’

My aunt observed, that in a case where both parties were willing toagree to anything, she took it for granted there would be no difficulty insettling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her opinion.

‘In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,’ said Mr.Micawber, with some pride, ‘for meeting the destiny to which we arenow understood to be self-devoted, I beg to report them. My eldest daugh-ter attends at five every morning in a neighbouring establishment, to ac-quire the process—if process it may be called—of milking cows. My youngerchildren are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances will permit,the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in the poorer parts of this

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city: a pursuit from which they have, on two occasions, been broughthome, within an inch of being run over. I have myself directed some atten-tion, during the past week, to the art of baking; and my son Wilkins hasissued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle, when permitted, by therugged hirelings who had them in charge, to render any voluntary service inthat direction—which I regret to say, for the credit of our nature, was notoften; he being generally warned, with imprecations, to desist.’

‘All very right indeed,’ said my aunt, encouragingly. ‘Mrs. Micawberhas been busy, too, I have no doubt.’

‘My dear madam,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, with her business-likeair. ‘I am free to confess that I have not been actively engaged in pur-suits immediately connected with cultivation or with stock, thoughwell aware that both will claim my attention on a foreign shore. Suchopportunities as I have been enabled to alienate from my domesticduties, I have devoted to corresponding at some length with my fam-ily. For I own it seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs.Micawber, who always fell back on me, I suppose from old habit, towhomsoever else she might address her discourse at starting, ‘that thetime is come when the past should be buried in oblivion; when myfamily should take Mr. Micawber by the hand, and Mr. Micawbershould take my family by the hand; when the lion should lie downwith the lamb, and my family be on terms with Mr. Micawber.’

I said I thought so too.‘This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ pursued Mrs.

Micawber, ‘in which I view the subject. When I lived at home withmy papa and mama, my papa was accustomed to ask, when anypoint was under discussion in our limited circle, “In what light doesmy Emma view the subject?” That my papa was too partial, I know;still, on such a point as the frigid coldness which has ever subsistedbetween Mr. Micawber and my family, I necessarily have formed anopinion, delusive though it may be.’

‘No doubt. Of course you have, ma’am,’ said my aunt.‘Precisely so,’ assented Mrs. Micawber. ‘Now, I may be wrong in

my conclusions; it is very likely that I am, but my individual impres-sion is, that the gulf between my family and Mr. Micawber may betraced to an apprehension, on the part of my family, that Mr.Micawber would require pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help

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thinking,’ said Mrs. Micawber, with an air of deep sagacity, ‘thatthere are members of my family who have been apprehensive thatMr. Micawber would solicit them for their names.—I do not meanto be conferred in Baptism upon our children, but to be inscribed onBills of Exchange, and negotiated in the Money Market.’

The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber announcedthis discovery, as if no one had ever thought of it before, seemedrather to astonish my aunt; who abruptly replied, ‘Well, ma’am, uponthe whole, I shouldn’t wonder if you were right!’

‘Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the pecuniaryshackles that have so long enthralled him,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘andof commencing a new career in a country where there is sufficientrange for his abilities,—which, in my opinion, is exceedingly impor-tant; Mr. Micawber’s abilities peculiarly requiring space,—it seemsto me that my family should signalize the occasion by coming for-ward. What I could wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr.Micawber and my family at a festive entertainment, to be given atmy family’s expense; where Mr. Micawber’s health and prosperitybeing proposed, by some leading member of my family, Mr. Micawbermight have an opportunity of developing his views.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, with some heat, ‘it may be betterfor me to state distinctly, at once, that if I were to develop my viewsto that assembled group, they would possibly be found of an offen-sive nature: my impression being that your family are, in the aggre-gate, impertinent Snobs; and, in detail, unmitigated Ruffians.’

‘Micawber,’ said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, ‘no! You havenever understood them, and they have never understood you.’

Mr. Micawber coughed.‘They have never understood you, Micawber,’ said his wife. ‘They

may be incapable of it. If so, that is their misfortune. I can pity theirmisfortune.’

‘I am extremely sorry, my dear Emma,’ said Mr. Micawber, relent-ing, ‘to have been betrayed into any expressions that might, evenremotely, have the appearance of being strong expressions. All I wouldsay is, that I can go abroad without your family coming forward tofavour me,—in short, with a parting Shove of their cold shoulders;and that, upon the whole, I would rather leave England with such

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impetus as I possess, than derive any acceleration of it from thatquarter. At the same time, my dear, if they should condescend toreply to your communications—which our joint experience rendersmost improbable—far be it from me to be a barrier to your wishes.’

The matter being thus amicably settled, Mr. Micawber gave Mrs.Micawber his arm, and glancing at the heap of books and paperslying before Traddles on the table, said they would leave us to our-selves; which they ceremoniously did.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, leaning back in his chair whenthey were gone, and looking at me with an affection that made hiseyes red, and his hair all kinds of shapes, ‘I don’t make any excuse fortroubling you with business, because I know you are deeply inter-ested in it, and it may divert your thoughts. My dearboy, I hope you are not worn out?’

‘I am quite myself,’ said I, after a pause. ‘We have more cause tothink of my aunt than of anyone. You know how much she hasdone.’

‘Surely, surely,’ answered Traddles. ‘Who can forget it!’‘But even that is not all,’ said I. ‘During the last fortnight, some

new trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and out of Londonevery day. Several times she has gone out early, and been absent untilevening. Last night, Traddles, with this journey before her, it wasalmost midnight before she came home. You know what her consid-eration for others is. She will not tell me what has happened to dis-tress her.’

My aunt, very pale, and with deep lines in her face, sat immovableuntil I had finished; when some stray tears found their way to hercheeks, and she put her hand on mine.

‘It’s nothing, Trot; it’s nothing. There will be no more of it. Youshall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us attend to theseaffairs.’

‘I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,’ Traddles began, ‘thatalthough he would appear not to have worked to any good account forhimself, he is a most untiring man when he works for other people. Inever saw such a fellow. If he always goes on in the same way, he mustbe, virtually, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat intowhich he has been continually putting himself; and the distracted and

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impetuous manner in which he has been diving, day and night, amongpapers and books; to say nothing of the immense number of letters hehas written me between this house and Mr. Wickfield’s, and oftenacross the table when he has been sitting opposite, and might muchmore easily have spoken; is quite extraordinary.’

‘Letters!’ cried my aunt. ‘I believe he dreams in letters!’‘There’s Mr. Dick, too,’ said Traddles, ‘has been doing wonders!

As soon as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heep, whom hekept in such charge as I never saw exceeded, he began to devote him-self to Mr. Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the inves-tigations we have been making, and his real usefulness in extracting,and copying, and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stimulatingto us.’

‘Dick is a very remarkable man,’ exclaimed my aunt; ‘and I alwayssaid he was. Trot, you know it.’

‘I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,’ pursued Traddles, at oncewith great delicacy and with great earnestness, ‘that in your absenceMr. Wickfield has considerably improved. Relieved of the incubusthat had fastened upon him for so long a time, and of the dreadfulapprehensions under which he had lived, he is hardly the same per-son. At times, even his impaired power of concentrating his memoryand attention on particular points of business, has recovered itselfvery much; and he has been able to assist us in making some thingsclear, that we should have found very difficult indeed, if not hope-less, without him. But what I have to do is to come to results; whichare short enough; not to gossip on all the hopeful circumstances Ihave observed, or I shall never have done.’ His natural manner andagreeable simplicity made it transparent that he said this to put us ingood heart, and to enable Agnes to hear her father mentioned withgreater confidence; but it was not the less pleasant for that.

‘Now, let me see,’ said Traddles, looking among the papers on thetable. ‘Having counted our funds, and reduced to order a great massof unintentional confusion in the first place, and of wilful confusionand falsification in the second, we take it to be clear that Mr. Wickfieldmight now wind up his business, and his agency-trust, and exhibitno deficiency or defalcation whatever.’

‘Oh, thank Heaven!’ cried Agnes, fervently.

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‘But,’ said Traddles, ‘the surplus that would be left as his means ofsupport—and I suppose the house to be sold, even in saying this—would be so small, not exceeding in all probability somehundreds of pounds, that perhaps, Miss Wickfield, it would be bestto consider whether he might not retain his agency of the estate towhich he has so long been receiver. His friends might advise him,you know; now he is free. You yourself, Miss Wickfield—Copperfield—I—’

‘I have considered it, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, looking to me, ‘and Ifeel that it ought not to be, and must not be; even on the recommen-dation of a friend to whom I am so grateful, and owe so much.’

‘I will not say that I recommend it,’ observed Traddles. ‘I think itright to suggest it. No more.’

‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ answered Agnes, steadily, ‘for it givesme hope, almost assurance, that we think alike. Dear Mr. Traddles anddear Trotwood, papa once free with honour, what could I wish for! Ihave always aspired, if I could have released him from the toils in whichhe was held, to render back some little portion of the love and care I owehim, and to devote my life to him. It has been, for years, the utmostheight of my hopes. To take our future on myself, will be the next greathappiness—the next to his release from all trust and responsibility—thatI can know.’

‘Have you thought how, Agnes?’‘Often! I am not afraid, dear Trotwood. I am certain of success. So

many people know me here, and think kindly of me, that I am cer-tain. Don’t mistrust me. Our wants are not many. If I rent the dearold house, and keep a school, I shall be useful and happy.’

The calm fervour of her cheerful voice brought back so vividly,first the dear old house itself, and then my solitary home, that myheart was too full for speech. Traddles pretended for a littlewhile to be busily looking among the papers.

‘Next, Miss Trotwood,’ said Traddles, ‘that property of yours.’‘Well, sir,’ sighed my aunt. ‘All I have got to say about it is, that if it’s

gone, I can bear it; and if it’s not gone, I shall be glad to get it back.’‘It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Consols?’ said

Traddles.‘Right!’ replied my aunt.

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‘I can’t account for more than five,’ said Traddles, with an air ofperplexity.

‘—thousand, do you mean?’ inquired my aunt, with uncommoncomposure, ‘or pounds?’

‘Five thousand pounds,’ said Traddles.‘It was all there was,’ returned my aunt. ‘I sold three, myself. One,

I paid for your articles, Trot, my dear; and the other two I have byme. When I lost the rest, I thought it wise to say nothing about thatsum, but to keep it secretly for a rainy day. I wanted to see how youwould come out of the trial, Trot; and you came out nobly—perse-vering, self-reliant, self-denying! So did Dick. Don’t speak to me, forI find my nerves a little shaken!’

Nobody would have thought so, to see her sitting upright, withher arms folded; but she had wonderful self-command.

‘Then I am delighted to say,’ cried Traddles, beaming with joy,‘that we have recovered the whole money!’

‘Don’t congratulate me, anybody!’ exclaimed my aunt. ‘How so,sir?’

‘You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wickfield?’ saidTraddles.

‘Of course I did,’ said my aunt, ‘and was therefore easily silenced.Agnes, not a word!’

‘And indeed,’ said Traddles, ‘it was sold, by virtue of the power ofmanagement he held from you; but I needn’t say by whom sold, oron whose actual signature. It was afterwards pretended to Mr.Wickfield, by that rascal,—and proved, too, by figures,—that hehad possessed himself of the money (on general instructions, he said)to keep other deficiencies and difficulties from the light. Mr.Wickfield, being so weak and helpless in his hands as to pay you,afterwards, several sums of interest on a pretended principal whichhe knew did not exist, made himself, unhappily, a party to the fraud.’

‘And at last took the blame upon himself,’ added my aunt; ‘andwrote me a mad letter, charging himself with robbery, and wrongunheard of. Upon which I paid him a visit early one morning, calledfor a candle, burnt the letter, and told him if he ever could right meand himself, to do it; and if he couldn’t, to keep his own counsel forhis daughter’s sake.—If anybody speaks to me, I’ll leave the house!’

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We all remained quiet; Agnes covering her face.‘Well, my dear friend,’ said my aunt, after a pause, ‘and you have

really extorted the money back from him?’‘Why, the fact is,’ returned Traddles, ‘Mr. Micawber had so com-

pletely hemmed him in, and was always ready with so many newpoints if an old one failed, that he could not escape from us. A mostremarkable circumstance is, that I really don’t think he grasped thissum even so much for the gratification of his avarice, which wasinordinate, as in the hatred he felt for Copperfield. He said so to me,plainly. He said he would even have spent as much, to baulk or in-jure Copperfield.’

‘Ha!’ said my aunt, knitting her brows thoughtfully, and glancingat Agnes. ‘And what’s become of him?’

‘I don’t know. He left here,’ said Traddles, ‘with his mother, whohad been clamouring, and beseeching, and disclosing, the whole time.They went away by one of the London night coaches, and I know nomore about him; except that his malevolence to me at parting wasaudacious. He seemed to consider himself hardly less indebted tome, than to Mr. Micawber; which I consider (as I told him) quite acompliment.’

‘Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles?’ I asked.‘Oh dear, yes, I should think so,’ he replied, shaking his head,

seriously. ‘I should say he must have pocketed a good deal, in oneway or other. But, I think you would find, Copperfield, if you hadan opportunity of observing his course, that money would neverkeep that man out of mischief. He is such an incarnate hypocrite,that whatever object he pursues, he must pursue crookedly. It’s hisonly compensation for the outward restraints he puts upon himself.Always creeping along the ground to some small end or other, hewill always magnify every object in the way; and consequently willhate and suspect everybody that comes, in the most innocent man-ner, between him and it. So the crooked courses will becomecrookeder, at any moment, for the least reason, or for none. It’s onlynecessary to consider his history here,’ said Traddles, ‘to know that.’

‘He’s a monster of meanness!’ said my aunt.‘Really I don’t know about that,’ observed Traddles thoughtfully.

‘Many people can be very mean, when they give their minds to it.’

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‘And now, touching Mr. Micawber,’ said my aunt.‘Well, really,’ said Traddles, cheerfully, ‘I must, once more, give

Mr. Micawber high praise. But for his having been so patient andpersevering for so long a time, we never could have hoped to doanything worth speaking of. And I think we ought to consider thatMr. Micawber did right, for right’s sake, when we reflect what termshe might have made with Uriah Heep himself, for his silence.’

‘I think so too,’ said I.‘Now, what would you give him?’ inquired my aunt.‘Oh! Before you come to that,’ said Traddles, a little disconcerted,

‘I am afraid I thought it discreet to omit (not being able to carryeverything before me) two points, in making this lawless adjustment—for it’s perfectly lawless from beginning to end—of a difficult affair.Those I.O.U.’s, and so forth, which Mr. Micawber gave him for theadvances he had—’

‘Well! They must be paid,’ said my aunt.‘Yes, but I don’t know when they may be proceeded on, or where

they are,’ rejoined Traddles, opening his eyes; ‘and I anticipate, that,between this time and his departure, Mr. Micawber will be con-stantly arrested, or taken in execution.’

‘Then he must be constantly set free again, and taken out of execu-tion,’ said my aunt. ‘What’s the amount altogether?’

‘Why, Mr. Micawber has entered the transactions—he calls themtransactions—with great form, in a book,’ rejoined Traddles, smil-ing; ‘and he makes the amount a hundred and three pounds, five.’

‘Now, what shall we give him, that sum included?’ said my aunt.‘Agnes, my dear, you and I can talk about division of it afterwards.What should it be? Five hundred pounds?’

Upon this, Traddles and I both struck in at once. We both recom-mended a small sum in money, and the payment, without stipula-tion to Mr. Micawber, of the Uriah claims as they came in. We pro-posed that the family should have their passage and their outfit, anda hundred pounds; and that Mr. Micawber’s arrangement for therepayment of the advances should be gravely entered into, as it mightbe wholesome for him to suppose himself under that responsibility.To this, I added the suggestion, that I should give some explanationof his character and history to Mr. Peggotty, who I knew could be

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relied on; and that to Mr. Peggotty should be quietly entrusted thediscretion of advancing another hundred. I further proposed to interestMr. Micawber in Mr. Peggotty, by confiding so much of Mr. Peggotty’sstory to him as I might feel justified in relating, or might think expedi-ent; and to endeavour to bring each of them to bear upon the other, forthe common advantage. We all entered warmly into these views; and Imay mention at once, that the principals themselves did so, shortly after-wards, with perfect good will and harmony.

Seeing that Traddles now glanced anxiously at my aunt again, Ireminded him of the second and last point to which he had adverted.

‘You and your aunt will excuse me, Copperfield, if I touch upon apainful theme, as I greatly fear I shall,’ said Traddles, hesitating; ‘butI think it necessary to bring it to your recollection. On the day ofMr. Micawber’s memorable denunciation a threatening allusion wasmade by Uriah Heep to your aunt’s—husband.’

My aunt, retaining her stiff position, and apparent composure,assented with a nod.

‘Perhaps,’ observed Traddles, ‘it was mere purposeless impertinence?’‘No,’ returned my aunt.‘There was—pardon me—really such a person, and at all in his

power?’ hinted Traddles.‘Yes, my good friend,’ said my aunt.Traddles, with a perceptible lengthening of his face, explained that

he had not been able to approach this subject; that it had shared thefate of Mr. Micawber’s liabilities, in not being comprehended in theterms he had made; that we were no longer of any authority withUriah Heep; and that if he could do us, or any of us, any injury orannoyance, no doubt he would.

My aunt remained quiet; until again some stray tears found theirway to her cheeks. ‘You are quite right,’ she said. ‘It was very thoughtfulto mention it.’

‘Can I—or Copperfield—do anything?’ asked Traddles, gently.‘Nothing,’ said my aunt. ‘I thank you many times. Trot, my dear,

a vain threat! Let us have Mr. and Mrs. Micawber back. And don’tany of you speak to me!’ With that she smoothed her dress, and sat,with her upright carriage, looking at the door.

‘Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!’ said my aunt, when they entered.

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‘We have been discussing your emigration, with many apologies toyou for keeping you out of the room so long; and I’ll tell you whatarrangements we propose.’

These she explained to the unbounded satisfaction of the fam-ily,—children and all being then present,—and so much to the awak-ening of Mr. Micawber’s punctual habits in the opening stage of allbill transactions, that he could not be dissuaded from immediatelyrushing out, in the highest spirits, to buy the stamps for hisnotes of hand. But, his joy received a sudden check; for within fiveminutes, he returned in the custody of a sheriff ‘s officer, informingus, in a flood of tears, that all was lost. We, being quite prepared forthis event, which was of course a proceeding of Uriah Heep’s, soonpaid the money; and in five minutes more Mr. Micawber was seatedat the table, filling up the stamps with an expression of perfect joy,which only that congenial employment, or the making of punch,could impart in full completeness to his shining face. To see him atwork on the stamps, with the relish of an artist, touching them likepictures, looking at them sideways, taking weighty notes of datesand amounts in his pocket-book, and contemplating them whenfinished, with a high sense of their precious value, was a sight indeed.

‘Now, the best thing you can do, sir, if you’ll allow me to adviseyou,’ said my aunt, after silently observing him, ‘is to abjure thatoccupation for evermore.’

‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is my intention to registersuch a vow on the virgin page of the future. Mrs. Micawber willattest it. I trust,’ said Mr. Micawber, solemnly, ‘that my son Wilkinswill ever bear in mind, that he had infinitely better put his fist in thefire, than use it to handle the serpents that have poisoned the life-blood of his unhappy parent!’ Deeply affected, and changed in amoment to the image of despair, Mr. Micawber regarded the ser-pents with a look of gloomy abhorrence (in which his late admira-tion of them was not quite subdued), folded them up and put themin his pocket.

This closed the proceedings of the evening. We were weary withsorrow and fatigue, and my aunt and I were to return to London onthe morrow. It was arranged that the Micawbers should follow us,after effecting a sale of their goods to a broker; that Mr. Wickfield’s

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affairs should be brought to a settlement, with all convenient speed,under the direction of Traddles; and that Agnes should also come toLondon, pending those arrangements. We passed the night at the oldhouse, which, freed from the presence of the Heeps, seemed purgedof a disease; and I lay in my old room, like a shipwrecked wanderercome home.

We went back next day to my aunt’s house—not to mine—andwhen she and I sat alone, as of old, before going to bed, she said:

‘Trot, do you really wish to know what I have had upon my mindlately?’

‘Indeed I do, aunt. If there ever was a time when I felt unwillingthat you should have a sorrow or anxiety which I could not share, itis now.’

‘You have had sorrow enough, child,’ said my aunt, affectionately,‘without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no othermotive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.’

‘I know that well,’ said I. ‘But tell me now.’‘Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?’ asked

my aunt.‘Of course.’‘At nine,’ said she. ‘I’ll tell you then, my dear.’At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to

London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came toone of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plainhearse. The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a mo-tion of her hand at the window, drove slowly off; we following.

‘You understand it now, Trot,’ said my aunt. ‘He is gone!’‘Did he die in the hospital?’‘Yes.’She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on

her face.‘He was there once before,’ said my aunt presently. ‘He was ailing

a long time—a shattered, broken man, these many years. When heknew his state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. Hewas sorry then. Very sorry.’

‘You went, I know, aunt.’‘I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.’

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‘He died the night before we went to Canterbury?’ said I. My auntnodded. ‘No one can harm him now,’ she said. ‘It was a vain threat.’

We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. ‘Bet-ter here than in the streets,’ said my aunt. ‘He was born here.’

We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I rememberwell, where the service was read consigning it to the dust.

‘Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,’ said my aunt, as wewalked back to the chariot, ‘I was married. God forgive us all!’ Wetook our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long time,holding my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears, and said:

‘He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot—and hewas sadly changed!’

It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon became com-posed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shaken, she said, orshe would not have given way to it. God forgive us all!

So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where we foundthe following short note, which had arrived by that morning’s postfrom Mr. Micawber:

‘Canterbury,

‘Friday.

‘My dear Madam, and Copperfield,

‘The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is againenveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever withdrawn from theeyes of a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed!

‘Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty’s High Court ofKing’s Bench at Westminster), in another cause of HEEP V.MICAWBER, and the defendant in that cause is the prey of the sher-iff having legal jurisdiction in this bailiwick.

‘Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front of battle lower, See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and slavery!

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‘Consigned to which, and to a speedy end (for mental torture is notsupportable beyond a certain point, and that point I feel I have at-tained), my course is run. Bless you, bless you! Some future traveller,visiting, from motives of curiosity, not unmingled, let us hope, withsympathy, the place of confinement allotted to debtors in this city,may, and I trust will, Ponder, as he traces on its wall, inscribed with arusty nail, ‘The obscure initials,

‘W. M.

‘P.S. I re-open this to say that our common friend, Mr. ThomasTraddles (who has not yet left us, and is looking extremely well), haspaid the debt and costs, in the noble name of Miss Trotwood; andthat myself and family are at the height of earthly bliss.’

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CHAPTER 55TEMPEST

I NOW APPROACH AN EVENT in my life, so indelible, so awful, so boundby an infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded it, in these pages,that, from the beginning of my narrative, I have seen it growing largerand larger as I advanced, like a great tower in a plain, and throwing itsfore-cast shadow even on the incidents of my childish days.

For years after it occurred, I dreamed of it often. I have started up sovividly impressed by it, that its fury has yet seemed raging in my quietroom, in the still night. I dream of it sometimes,though at lengthened and uncertain intervals, to this hour. I have anassociation between it and a stormy wind, or the lightest mention of asea-shore, as strong as any of which my mind is conscious. As plainly asI behold what happened, I will try to write it down. I do not recall it,but see it done; for it happens again before me.

The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the emigrant-ship,my good old nurse (almost broken-hearted for me, when we firstmet) came up to London. I was constantly with her, and her brother,and the Micawbers (they being very much together); but Emily Inever saw.

One evening when the time was close at hand, I was alone withPeggotty and her brother. Our conversation turned on Ham. Shedescribed to us how tenderly he had taken leave of her, and howmanfully and quietly he had borne himself. Most of all, of late, whenshe believed he was most tried. It was a subject of which the affec-tionate creature never tired; and our interest in hearing the manyexamples which she, who was so much with him, had to relate, wasequal to hers in relating them.

My aunt and I were at that time vacating the two cottages at

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Highgate; I intending to go abroad, and she to return to her house atDover. We had a temporary lodging in Covent Garden. As I walkedhome to it, after this evening’s conversation, reflecting on what hadpassed between Ham and myself when I was last at Yarmouth, Iwavered in the original purpose I had formed, of leaving a letter forEmily when I should take leave of her uncle on board the ship,and thought it would be better to write to her now. She might de-sire, I thought, after receiving my communication, to send someparting word by me to her unhappy lover. I ought to give her theopportunity.

I therefore sat down in my room, before going to bed, and wroteto her. I told her that I had seen him, and that he had requested me totell her what I have already written in its place in these sheets. I faith-fully repeated it. I had no need to enlarge upon it, if I had had theright. Its deep fidelity and goodness were not to be adorned by me orany man. I left it out, to be sent round in the morning; with a line toMr. Peggotty, requesting him to give it to her; and went to bed atdaybreak.

I was weaker than I knew then; and, not falling asleep until the sunwas up, lay late, and unrefreshed, next day. I was roused by the silentpresence of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my sleep, as I supposewe all do feel such things.

‘Trot, my dear,’ she said, when I opened my eyes, ‘I couldn’t makeup my mind to disturb you. Mr. Peggotty is here; shall he come up?’

I replied yes, and he soon appeared.‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, when we had shaken hands, ‘I giv Em’ly your

letter, sir, and she writ this heer; and begged of me fur to ask you toread it, and if you see no hurt in’t, to be so kind as take charge on’t.’

‘Have you read it?’ said I.He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it, and read as follows:

‘I have got your message. Oh, what can I write, to thank you foryour good and blessed kindness to me!

‘I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep them till I die.They are sharp thorns, but they are such comfort. I have prayed overthem, oh, I have prayed so much. When I find what you are, and whatuncle is, I think what God must be, and can cry to him.

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‘Good-bye for ever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye for everin this world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I may wake a childand come to you. All thanks and blessings. Farewell, evermore.’

This, blotted with tears, was the letter.

‘May I tell her as you doen’t see no hurt in’t, and as you’ll be sokind as take charge on’t, Mas’r Davy?’ said Mr. Peggotty, when I hadread it.

‘Unquestionably,’ said I—’but I am thinking—’‘Yes, Mas’r Davy?’‘I am thinking,’ said I, ‘that I’ll go down again to Yarmouth. There’s time,

and to spare, for me to go and come back before the ship sails. My mind isconstantly running on him, in his solitude; to put this letter of her writing inhis hand at this time, and to enable you to tell her, in the moment of parting,that he has got it, will be a kindness to both of them. I solemnly accepted hiscommission, dear good fellow, and cannot discharge it too completely. Thejourney is nothing to me. I am restless, and shall be better in motion. I’ll godown tonight.’

Though he anxiously endeavoured to dissuade me, I saw that hewas of my mind; and this, if I had required to be confirmed in myintention, would have had the effect. He went round to the coachoffice, at my request, and took the box-seat for me on the mail. Inthe evening I started, by that conveyance, down the road I had tra-versed under so many vicissitudes.

‘Don’t you think that,’ I asked the coachman, in the first stage outof London, ‘a very remarkable sky? I don’t remember to have seenone like it.’

‘Nor I—not equal to it,’ he replied. ‘That’s wind, sir. There’ll bemischief done at sea, I expect, before long.’

It was a murky confusion—here and there blotted with a colourlike the colour of the smoke from damp fuel—of flying clouds,tossed up into most remarkable heaps, suggesting greater heights inthe clouds than there were depths below them to the bottom of thedeepest hollows in the earth, through which the wild moon seemedto plunge headlong, as if, in a dread disturbance of the laws of na-ture, she had lost her way and were frightened. There had been a

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wind all day; and it was rising then, with an extraordinary great sound.In another hour it had much increased, and the sky was more over-cast, and blew hard.

But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and densely over-spreading the whole sky, then very dark, it came on to blow, harderand harder. It still increased, until our horses couldscarcely face the wind. Many times, in the dark part of the night (itwas then late in September, when the nights were not short), theleaders turned about, or came to a dead stop; and we were often inserious apprehension that the coach would be blown over. Sweepinggusts of rain came up before this storm, like showers of steel; and, atthose times, when there was any shelter of trees or lee walls to be got,we were fain to stop, in a sheer impossibility of continuing thestruggle.

When the day broke, it blew harder and harder. I had been inYarmouth when the seamen said it blew great guns, but I had neverknown the like of this, or anything approaching to it. We came toIpswich—very late, having had to fight every inch of ground sincewe were ten miles out of London; and found a cluster of people in themarket-place, who had risen from their beds in the night, fearful offalling chimneys. Some of these, congregating about the inn-yard whilewe changed horses, told us of great sheets of lead having been ripped offa high church-tower, and flung into a by-street, which they then blockedup. Others had to tell of country people, coming in from neighbouringvillages, who had seen great trees lying torn out of the earth, and wholericks scattered about the roads and fields. Still, there was no abatement inthe storm, but it blew harder.

As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from which thismighty wind was blowing dead on shore, its force became more andmore terrific. Long before we saw the sea, its spray was on our lips,and showered salt rain upon us. The water was out, over miles andmiles of the flat country adjacent to Yarmouth; and every sheet andpuddle lashed its banks, and had its stress of little breakers settingheavily towards us. When we came within sight of the sea, the waveson the horizon, caught at intervals above the rolling abyss, were likeglimpses of another shore with towers and buildings. When at lastwe got into the town, the people came out to their doors, all aslant,

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and with streaming hair, making a wonder of the mail that had comethrough such a night.

I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the sea; stagger-ing along the street, which was strewn with sand and seaweed, andwith flying blotches of sea-foam; afraid of falling slates and tiles; andholding by people I met, at angry corners. Coming near the beach, Isaw, not only the boatmen, but half the people of the town, lurkingbehind buildings; some, now and thenbraving the fury of the storm to look away to sea, and blown sheerout of their course in trying to get zigzag back.

Joining these groups, I found bewailing women whose husbandswere away in herring or oyster boats, which there was too muchreason to think might have foundered before they could run in any-where for safety. Grizzled old sailors were among the people, shakingtheir heads, as they looked from water to sky, and muttering to oneanother; ship-owners, excited and uneasy; children, huddling together,and peering into older faces; even stout mariners, disturbed and anx-ious, levelling their glasses at the sea from behind places of shelter, asif they were surveying an enemy.

The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient pause tolook at it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, the flying stones andsand, and the awful noise, confounded me. As the highwatery walls came rolling in, and, at their highest, tumbled into surf,they looked as if the least would engulf the town. As the recedingwave swept back with a hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out deepcaves in the beach, as if its purpose were to undermine the earth.When some white-headed billows thundered on, and dashedthemselves to pieces before they reached the land, every fragment ofthe late whole seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath, rush-ing to be gathered to the composition of another monster. Undulat-ing hills were changed to valleys, undulating valleys (with a solitarystorm-bird sometimes skimming through them) were lifted up tohills; masses of water shivered and shook the beach with a boomingsound; every shape tumultuously rolled on, as soon as made,to change its shape and place, and beat another shape and place away;the ideal shore on the horizon, with its towers and buildings, roseand fell; the clouds fell fast and thick; I seemed to see a rending and

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upheaving of all nature.Not finding Ham among the people whom this memorable

wind—for it is still remembered down there, as the greatest everknown to blowupon that coast—had brought together, I made my way to his house.It was shut; and as no one answered to my knocking, I went, by backways and by-lanes, to the yard where he worked. I learned, there, thathe had gone to Lowestoft, to meet some sudden exigency of ship-repairing in which his skill was required; but that he would be backtomorrow morning, in good time.

I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and dressed, andtried to sleep, but in vain, it was five o’clock in the afternoon. I hadnot sat five minutes by the coffee-room fire, when the waiter, com-ing to stir it, as an excuse for talking, told me that two colliers hadgone down, with all hands, a few miles away; and that some otherships had been seen labouring hard in the Roads, and trying, in greatdistress, to keep off shore. Mercy on them, and on all poor sailors,said he, if we had another night like the last!

I was very much depressed in spirits; very solitary; and felt an un-easiness in Ham’s not being there, disproportionate to the occasion. Iwas seriously affected, without knowing how much, by late events;and my long exposure to the fierce wind had confused me. Therewas that jumble in my thoughts and recollections, that I had lost theclear arrangement of time and distance. Thus, if I had gone out intothe town, I should not have been surprised, I think, to encountersomeone who I knew must be then in London. So to speak, therewas in these respects a curious inattention in my mind. Yet it wasbusy, too, with all the remembrances the place naturally awakened;and they were particularly distinct and vivid.

In this state, the waiter’s dismal intelligence about the ships immedi-ately connected itself, without any effort of my volition, with myuneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an apprehension ofhis returning from Lowestoft by sea, and being lost. This grew sostrong with me, that I resolved to go back to the yard before I took mydinner, and ask the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to returnby sea at all likely? If he gave me the least reason to think so, I would goover to Lowestoft and prevent it by bringing him with me.

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I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the yard. I was nonetoo soon; for the boat-builder, with a lantern in his hand, was lock-ing the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I asked him the question,and said there was no fear; no man in his senses, or out of them,would put off in such a gale of wind, least of all Ham Peggotty, whohad been born to seafaring.

So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt ashamed ofdoing what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I went back to the inn.If such a wind could rise, I think it was rising. The howl and roar, therattling of the doors and windows, the rumbling in the chimneys,the apparent rocking of the very house that sheltered me, and theprodigious tumult of the sea, were more fearful than in the morning.But there was now a great darkness besides; and that invested thestorm with new terrors, real and fanciful.

I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue steadfastto anything. Something within me, faintly answering to the stormwithout, tossed up the depths of my memory and made a tumult inthem. Yet, in all the hurry of my thoughts, wild running with thethundering sea,—the storm, and my uneasiness regardingHam were always in the fore-ground.

My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh my-self with a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a dull slumberbefore the fire, without losing my consciousness, either of the uproarout of doors, or of the place in which I was. Both became overshad-owed by a new and indefinable horror; and when I awoke—or ratherwhen I shook off the lethargy that bound me in my chair—my wholeframe thrilled with objectless and unintelligible fear.

I walked to and fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, listened to theawful noises: looked at faces, scenes, and figures in the fire. At length,the steady ticking of the undisturbed clock on the wall tormentedme to that degree that I resolved to go to bed.

It was reassuring, on such a night, to be told that some of theinn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morning. I went tobed, exceedingly weary and heavy; but, on my lying down, all suchsensations vanished, as if by magic, and I was broad awake, withevery sense refined.

For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and water; imagining,

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now, that I heard shrieks out at sea; now, that I distinctly heard thefiring of signal guns; and now, the fall of houses in the town. I gotup, several times, and looked out; but could see nothing, except thereflection in the window-panes of the faint candle I had left burning,and of my own haggard face looking in at me from the black void.

At length, my restlessness attained to such a pitch, that I hurriedon my clothes, and went downstairs. In the large kitchen, where Idimly saw bacon and ropes of onions hanging from the beams, thewatchers were clustered together, in various attitudes, about a table,purposely moved away from the great chimney, and brought nearthe door. A pretty girl, who had her ears stopped with her apron, andher eyes upon the door, screamed when I appeared, supposing me tobe a spirit; but the others had more presence of mind, and were gladof an addition to their company. One man, referring to the topicthey had been discussing, asked me whether I thought the souls ofthe collier-crews who had gone down, were out in the storm?

I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once, I opened the yard-gate, and looked into the empty street. The sand, the sea-weed, andthe flakes of foam, were driving by; and I was obliged to call forassistance before I could shut the gate again, and make it fast againstthe wind.

There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber, when I at lengthreturned to it; but I was tired now, and, getting into bed again, fell—off a tower and down a precipice—into the depths of sleep. I have animpression that for a long time, though I dreamed of being else-where and in a variety of scenes, it was always blowing in my dream.At length, I lost that feeble hold upon reality, and was engaged withtwo dear friends, but who they were I don’t know, at the siege ofsome town in a roar of cannonading.

The thunder of the cannon was so loud and incessant, that I couldnot hear something I much desired to hear, until I made a great exer-tion and awoke. It was broad day—eight or nine o’clock; the stormraging, in lieu of the batteries; and someone knocking and calling atmy door.

‘What is the matter?’ I cried.‘A wreck! Close by!’I sprung out of bed, and asked, what wreck?

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‘A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine.Make haste, sir, if you want to see her! It’s thought, down on thebeach, she’ll go to pieces every moment.’

The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase; and I wrappedmyself in my clothes as quickly as I could, and ran into the street.

Numbers of people were there before me, all running in one direc-tion, to the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good many,and soon came facing the wild sea.

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not moresensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed of, had been dimin-ished by the silencing of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But thesea, having upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, wasinfinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last.Every appearance it had then presented, bore the expression of beingswelled; and the height to which the breakers rose, and, looking overone another, bore one another down, and rolled in, in interminablehosts, was most appalling. In the difficulty of hearing anything butwind and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confusion,and my first breathless efforts to stand against the weather, I was soconfused that I looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing butthe foaming heads of the great waves. A half-dressed boatman, stand-ing next me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattoo’d arrow on it, point-ing in the same direction) to the left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it,close in upon us!

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from the deck,and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging; and allthat ruin, as the ship rolled and beat—which she did without amoment’s pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable—beat theside as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were even then beingmade, to cut this portion of the wreck away; for, as the ship, whichwas broadside on, turned towards us in her rolling, I plainly descriedher people at work with axes, especially one active figure with longcurling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which wasaudible even above the wind and water, rose from the shore at thismoment; the sea, sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a cleanbreach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of suchtoys, into the boiling surge.

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The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, anda wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The shiphad struck once, the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and thenlifted in and struck again. I understood him to add that she wasparting amidships, and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling andbeating were too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. Ashe spoke, there was another great cry of pity from the beach; fourmen arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging ofthe remaining mast; uppermost, the active figure with the curling hair.

There was a bell on board; and as the ship rolled and dashed, like adesperate creature driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep ofher deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the shore, nownothing but her keel, as she sprung wildly over and turned towardsthe sea, the bell rang; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men,was borne towards us on the wind. Again we lost her, and again sherose. Two men were gone. The agony on the shore increased. Mengroaned, and clasped their hands; women shrieked, and turned awaytheir faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the beach, crying forhelp where no help could be. I found myself one of these, franticallyimploring a knot of sailors whom I knew, not to let those two lostcreatures perish before our eyes.

They were making out to me, in an agitated way—I don’t knowhow, for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough tounderstand—that the lifeboat had been bravely manned an hour ago,and could do nothing; and that as no man would be so desperate asto attempt to wade off with a rope, and establish a communicationwith the shore, there was nothing left to try; when I noticed thatsome new sensation moved the people on the beach, and saw thempart, and Ham come breaking through them to the front.

I ran to him—as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for help. But,distracted though I was, by a sight so new to me and terrible, thedetermination in his face, and his look out to sea—exactly the samelook as I remembered in connexion with the morning after Emily’sflight—awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held him backwith both arms; and implored the men with whom I had been speak-ing, not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir fromoff that sand!

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Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreck, we saw thecruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men, andfly up in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast.

Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of thecalmly desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half thepeople present, I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. ‘Mas’rDavy,’ he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ‘if my time iscome, ’tis come. If ‘tan’t, I’ll bide it. Lord above bless you, and blessall! Mates, make me ready! I’m a-going off!’

I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, where thepeople around me made me stay; urging, as I confusedly perceived,that he was bent on going, with help or without, and that I shouldendanger the precautions for his safety by troubling those with whomthey rested. I don’t know what I answered, or what they rejoined; butI saw hurry on the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstanthat was there, and penetrating into a circle of figures that hid himfrom me. Then, I saw him standing alone, in a seaman’s frock andtrousers: a rope in his hand, or slung to his wrist: another round hisbody: and several of the best men holding, at a little distance, to thelatter, which he laid out himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet.

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking up. I saw thatshe was parting in the middle, and that the life of the solitary manupon the mast hung by a thread. Still, he clung to it. He had a singularred cap on,—not like a sailor’s cap, but of a finer colour; and as the fewyielding planks between him and destruction rolled and bulged, andhis anticipative death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. Isaw him do it now, and thought I was going distracted, when hisaction brought an old remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend.

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspendedbreath behind him, and the storm before, until there was a greatretiring wave, when, with a backward glance at those who held therope which was made fast round his body, he dashed in after it, andin a moment was buffeting with the water; rising with the hills,falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then drawn again toland. They hauled in hastily.

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood; but hetook no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give them some

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directions for leaving him more free—or so I judged from the mo-tion of his arm—and was gone as before.

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling withthe valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards the shore,borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distancewas nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made the strifedeadly. At length he neared the wreck. He was so near, that with onemore of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it,—when ahigh, green, vast hill-side of water, moving on shoreward, from be-yond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound,and the ship was gone!

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask hadbeen broken, in running to the spot where they were hauling in.Consternation was in every face. They drew him to my very feet—insensible—dead. He was carried to the nearest house; and, no onepreventing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every means ofrestoration were tried; but he had been beaten to death by the greatwave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever.

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all wasdone, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were chil-dren, andever since, whispered my name at the door.

‘Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which,with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over yonder?’

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me, was in hislook. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out tosupport me:

‘Has a body come ashore?’He said, ‘Yes.’‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.He answered nothing.But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I

had looked for shells, two children—on that part of it where somelighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had beenscattered by the wind—among the ruins of the home he hadwronged—I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I hadoften seen him lie at school.

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CHAPTER 56THE NEW WOUND,

AND THE OLDNO NEED, O STEERFORTH, to have said, when we last spoke together,in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour—noneed to have said, ‘Think of me at my best!’ I had done that ever;and could I change now, looking on this sight!

They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered himwith a flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses.All the men who carried him had known him, and gone sailing withhim, and seen him merry and bold. They carried him through thewild roar, a hush in the midst of all the tumult; and took him to thecottage where Death was already.

But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked atone another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if itwere not right to lay him down in the same quiet room.

We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soonas I could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and beggedhim to provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to Londonin the night. I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of preparinghis mother to receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxiousto discharge that duty as faithfully as I could.

I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiositywhen I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when Icame out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge,there were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, andeven a little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length onlythe bleak night and the open country were around me, and the ashesof my youthful friendship.

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Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground wasperfumed by fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yel-low, red, and brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sunwas shining, I arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking asI went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that hadfollowed me all through the night, awaiting orders to advance.

The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not ablind was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with itscovered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gonedown, and nothing moved.

I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I didring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound ofthe bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand;and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said:

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?’‘I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.’‘Is anything the matter, sir?—Mr. James?—’‘Hush!’ said I. ‘Yes, something has happened, that I have to break to

Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?’The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out

now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw nocompany, but would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and MissDartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs?

Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only tocarry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room(which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its formerpleasant air of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed.The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His picture,as a boy, was there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept hisletters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now;if she would ever read them more!

The house was so still that I heard the girl’s light step upstairs. Onher return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforthwas an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuseher being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me. In a fewmoments I stood before her.

She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she had

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taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many tokensof his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded,remained there, just as he had left them, for the same reason. Shemurmured, however, even in her reception of me, that she was out ofher own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity; andwith her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth.

At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment ofher dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of eviltidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herselfa step behind the chair, to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth’sobservation; and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never fal-tered, never shrunk.

‘I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,’ said Mrs. Steerforth.‘I am unhappily a widower,’ said I.‘You are very young to know so great a loss,’ she returned. ‘I am

grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be good toyou.’

‘I hope Time,’ said I, looking at her, ‘will be good to all of us. DearMrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our heaviest misfor-tunes.’

The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes, alarmedher. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop, and change.

I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but ittrembled. She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a lowtone. Then, addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness:

‘My son is ill.’‘Very ill.’‘You have seen him?’‘I have.’‘Are you reconciled?’I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her

head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at herelbow, and in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, toRosa, ‘Dead!’

That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her,and read, plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, Imet her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up

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in the air with vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp themon her face.

The handsome lady—so like, oh so like!—regarded me with afixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to becalm, and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I shouldrather have entreated her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure.

‘When I was last here,’ I faltered, ‘Miss Dartle told me he wassailing here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea.If he were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast,as it is said he was; and if the vessel that was seen should really be theship which—’

‘Rosa!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, ‘come to me!’She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed

like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightfullaugh.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Nowhas he made atonement to you—with his life! Do you hear?—Hislife!’

Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making nosound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare.

‘Aye!’ cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, ‘lookat me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!’ striking thescar, ‘at your dead child’s handiwork!’

The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to Myheart. Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always ac-companied with an incapable motion of the head, but with no changeof face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as ifthe jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain.

‘Do you remember when he did this?’ she proceeded. ‘Do youremember when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pam-pering of his pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me forlife? Look at me, marked until I die with his high displeasure; andmoan and groan for what you made him!’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I entreated her. ‘For Heaven’s sake—’‘I will speak!’ she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. ‘Be

silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false son!Moan for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him,

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moan for your loss of him, moan for mine!’She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn fig-

ure, as if her passion were killing her by inches.‘You, resent his self-will!’ she exclaimed. ‘You, injured by his haughty

temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey, thequalities which made both when you gave him birth! You, who fromhis cradle reared him to be what he was, and stunted what he shouldhave been! Are you rewarded, now, for your years of trouble?’

‘Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!’‘I tell you,’ she returned, ‘I will speak to her. No power on earth

should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent allthese years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better than youever loved him!’ turning on her fiercely. ‘I could have lovedhim, and asked no return. If I had been his wife, I could have beenthe slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I should have been.Who knows it better than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious,selfish. My love would have been devoted—would have trod yourpaltry whimpering under foot!’

With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actuallydid it.

‘Look here!’ she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand.‘When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done, hesaw it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and showthe ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such knowl-edge as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was freshestand truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, when you were putoff with a slight word, he has taken Me to his heart!’

She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy—for itwas little less—yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which thesmouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment.

‘I descended—as I might have known I should, but that he fasci-nated me with his boyish courtship—into a doll, a trifle for the oc-cupation of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifledwith, as the inconstant humour took him. When he grew weary, Igrew weary. As his fancy died out, I would no more have tried tostrengthen any power I had, than I would have married him on hisbeing forced to take me for his wife. We fell away from one another

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without a word. Perhaps you saw it, and were not sorry. Since then,I have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture between you both;having no eyes, no ears, no feelings, no remembrances. Moan? Moanfor what you made him; not for your love. I tell you that the timewas, when I loved him better than you ever did!’

She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare,and the set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was re-peated, than if the face had been a picture.

‘Miss Dartle,’ said I, ‘if you can be so obdurate as not to feel forthis afflicted mother—’

‘Who feels for me?’ she sharply retorted. ‘She has sown this. Lether moan for the harvest that she reaps today!’

‘And if his faults—’ I began.‘Faults!’ she cried, bursting into passionate tears. ‘Who dares malign

him? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he stooped!’‘No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer remem-

brance than I,’ I replied. ‘I meant to say, if you have no compassion for hismother; or if his faults—you have been bitter on them—’

‘It’s false,’ she cried, tearing her black hair; ‘I loved him!’‘—if his faults cannot,’ I went on, ‘be banished from your remem-

brance, in such an hour; look at that figure, even as one you havenever seen before, and render it some help!’

All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable.Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the same dumb way fromtime to time, with the same helpless motion of the head; but givingno other sign of life. Miss Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it,and began to loosen the dress.

‘A curse upon you!’ she said, looking round at me, with a mingledexpression of rage and grief. ‘It was in an evil hour that you ever camehere! A curse upon you! Go!’

After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the bell, thesooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive figurein her arms, and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it, kissing it,calling to it, rocking it to and fro upon her bosom like a child, andtrying every tender means to rouse the dormant senses. No longerafraid of leaving her, I noiselessly turned back again; and alarmed thehouse as I went out.

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Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his mother’s room.She was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her; doc-tors were in attendance, many things had been tried; but she lay likea statue, except for the low sound now and then.

I went through the dreary house, and darkened the windows. Thewindows of the chamber where he lay, I darkened last. I lifted up theleaden hand, and held it to my heart; and all the world seemed deathand silence, broken only by his mother’s moaning.

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CHAPTER 57THE EMIGRANTS

ONE THING MORE, I had to do, before yielding myself to the shock ofthese emotions. It was, to conceal what had occurred, from those whowere going away; and to dismiss them on their voyage in happy igno-rance. In this, no time was to be lost.

I took Mr. Micawber aside that same night, and confided to himthe task of standing between Mr. Peggotty and intelligence of thelate catastrophe. He zealously undertook to do so, and to interceptany newspaper through which it might, without such precautions,reach him.

‘If it penetrates to him, sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, striking himselfon the breast, ‘it shall first pass through this body!’

Mr. Micawber, I must observe, in his adaptation of himself to a newstate of society, had acquired a bold buccaneering air, not absolutelylawless, but defensive and prompt. One might have supposed him achild of the wilderness, long accustomed to live out of the confines ofcivilization, and about to return to his native wilds.

He had provided himself, among other things, with a completesuit of oilskin, and a straw hat with a very low crown, pitched orcaulked on the outside. In this rough clothing, with a commonmariner’s telescope under his arm, and a shrewd trick of casting uphis eye at the sky as looking out for dirty weath er, he was far morenautical, after his manner, than Mr. Peggotty. His whole family, if Imay so express it, were cleared for action. I found Mrs. Micawber inthe closest and most uncompromising of bonnets, made fast underthe chin; and in a shawl which tied her up (as I had been tied up,when my aunt first received me) like a bundle, and was secured be-hind at the waist, in a strong knot. Miss Micawber I found made

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snug for stormy weather, in the same manner; with nothing super-fluous about her. Master Micawber was hardly visible in a Guernseyshirt, and the shaggiest suit of slops I ever saw; and the children weredone up, like preserved meats, in impervious cases. Both Mr. Micawberand his eldest son wore their sleeves loosely turned back at the wrists,as being ready to lend a hand in any direction, and to ‘tumble up’, orsing out, ‘Yeo—Heave—Yeo!’ on the shortest notice.

Thus Traddles and I found them at nightfall, assembled on thewooden steps, at that time known as Hungerford Stairs, watchingthe departure of a boat with some of their property on board. I hadtold Traddles of the terrible event, and it had greatly shocked him;but there could be no doubt of the kindness of keeping it a secret,and he had come to help me in this last service. It was here that Itook Mr. Micawber aside, and received his promise.

The Micawber family were lodged in a little, dirty, tumble-downpublic-house, which in those days was close to the stairs, and whoseprotruding wooden rooms overhung the river. The family, as emigrants,being objects of some interest in and about Hungerford, attracted somany beholders, that we were glad to take refuge in their room. It wasone of the wooden chambers upstairs, with the tide flowing underneath.My aunt and Agnes were there, busily making some little extra com-forts, in the way of dress, for the children. Peggotty was quietly assisting,with the old insensible work-box, yard-measure, and bit of wax-candlebefore her, that had now outlived so much.

It was not easy to answer her inquiries; still less to whisper Mr.Peggotty, when Mr. Micawber brought him in, that I had given theletter, and all was well. But I did both, and made them happy. If Ishowed any trace of what I felt, my own sorrows were sufficient toaccount for it.

‘And when does the ship sail, Mr. Micawber?’ asked my aunt.Mr. Micawber considered it necessary to prepare either my aunt or

his wife, by degrees, and said, sooner than he had expected yesterday.‘The boat brought you word, I suppose?’ said my aunt.‘It did, ma’am,’ he returned.‘Well?’ said my aunt. ‘And she sails—’‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘I am informed that we must positively be

on board before seven tomorrow morning.’

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‘Heyday!’ said my aunt, ‘that’s soon. Is it a sea-going fact, Mr.Peggotty?’

‘’Tis so, ma’am. She’ll drop down the river with that theer tide. IfMas’r Davy and my sister comes aboard at Gravesen’, arternoon o’next day, they’ll see the last on us.’

‘And that we shall do,’ said I, ‘be sure!’‘Until then, and until we are at sea,’ observed Mr. Micawber, with

a glance of intelligence at me, ‘Mr. Peggotty and myself will con-stantly keep a double look-out together, on our goods and chattels.Emma, my love,’ said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat in his mag-nificent way, ‘my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles is so obliging as tosolicit, in my ear, that he should have the privilege of ordering theingredients necessary to the composition of a moderate portion ofthat Beverage which is peculiarly associated, in our minds, with theRoast Beef of Old England. I allude to—in short, Punch. Underordinary circumstances, I should scruple to entreat the indulgence ofMiss Trotwood and Miss Wickfield, but—’

‘I can only say for myself,’ said my aunt, ‘that I will drink all hap-piness and success to you, Mr. Micawber, with the utmost pleasure.’

‘And I too!’ said Agnes, with a smile.Mr. Micawber immediately descended to the bar, where he ap-

peared to be quite at home; and in due time returned with a steam-ing jug. I could not but observe that he had been peeling the lemonswith his own clasp-knife, which, as became the knife of a practicalsettler, was about a foot long; and which he wiped, not wholly with-out ostentation, on the sleeve of his coat. Mrs. Micawber and thetwo elder members of the family I now found to be provided withsimilar formidable instruments, while every child had its own woodenspoon attached to its body by a strong line. In a similar anticipationof life afloat, and in the Bush, Mr. Micawber, instead of helpingMrs. Micawber and his eldest son and daughter to punch, in wine-glasses, which he might easily have done, for there was a shelf-full inthe room, served it out to them in a series of villainous little tin pots;and I never saw him enjoy anything so much as drinking out of hisown particular pint pot, and putting it in his pocket at the close ofthe evening.

‘The luxuries of the old country,’ said Mr. Micawber, with an in-

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tense satisfaction in their renouncement, ‘we abandon. The denizensof the forest cannot, of course, expect to participate in the refine-ments of the land of the Free.’

Here, a boy came in to say that Mr. Micawber was wanted down-stairs.

‘I have a presentiment,’ said Mrs. Micawber, setting down her tinpot, ‘that it is a member of my family!’

‘If so, my dear,’ observed Mr. Micawber, with his usual sudden-ness of warmth on that subject, ‘as the member of your family—whoever he, she, or it, may be—has kept us waiting for a consider-able period, perhaps the Member may now wait my convenience.’

‘Micawber,’ said his wife, in a low tone, ‘at such a time as this—’‘“It is not meet,”’ said Mr. Micawber, rising, ‘“that every nice of-

fence should bear its comment!” Emma, I stand reproved.’‘The loss, Micawber,’ observed his wife, ‘has been my family’s,

not yours. If my family are at length sensible of the deprivation towhich their own conduct has, in the past, exposed them, and nowdesire to extend the hand of fellowship, let it not be repulsed.’

‘My dear,’ he returned, ‘so be it!’‘If not for their sakes; for mine, Micawber,’ said his wife.‘Emma,’ he returned, ‘that view of the question is, at such a moment, irre-

sistible. I cannot, even now, distinctly pledge myself to fall upon your family’sneck; but the member of your family, who is now in attendance, shall have nogenial warmth frozen by me.’

Mr. Micawber withdrew, and was absent some little time; in thecourse of which Mrs. Micawber was not wholly free from an appre-hension that words might have arisen between him and the Member.At length the same boy reappeared, and presented me with a notewritten in pencil, and headed, in a legal manner, ‘Heep v. Micawber’.From this document, I learned that Mr. Micawber being again ar-rested, ‘Was in a final paroxysm of despair; and that he begged me tosend him his knife and pint pot, by bearer, as they might prove ser-viceable during the brief remainder of his existence, in jail. He alsorequested, as a last act of friendship, that I would see his family to theParish Workhouse, and forget that such a Being ever lived.

Of course I answered this note by going down with the boy to paythe money, where I found Mr. Micawber sitting in a corner, looking

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darkly at the Sheriff ‘s Officer who had effected the capture. On hisrelease, he embraced me with the utmost fervour; and made an entryof the transaction in his pocket-book—being very particular, I recol-lect, about a halfpenny I inadvertently omitted from my statementof the total.

This momentous pocket-book was a timely reminder to him ofanother transaction. On our return to the room upstairs (where heaccounted for his absence by saying that it had been occasioned bycircumstances over which he had no control), he took out of it alarge sheet of paper, folded small, and quite covered with long sums,carefully worked. From the glimpse I had of them, I should say thatI never saw such sums out of a school ciphering-book. These, itseemed, were calculations of compound interest on what he called‘the principal amount of forty-one, ten, eleven and a half ’, for vari-ous periods. After a careful consideration of these, and an elaborateestimate of his resources, he had come to the conclusion to selectthat sum which represented the amount with compound interest totwo years, fifteen calendar months, and fourteen days, from thatdate. For this he had drawn a note-of-hand with great neatness, whichhe handed over to Traddles on the spot, a discharge of his debt in full(as between man and man), with many acknowledgements.

‘I have still a presentiment,’ said Mrs. Micawber, pensively shak-ing her head, ‘that my family will appear on board, before we finallydepart.’

Mr. Micawber evidently had his presentiment on the subject too,but he put it in his tin pot and swallowed it.

‘If you have any opportunity of sending letters home, on yourpassage, Mrs. Micawber,’ said my aunt, ‘you must let us hear fromyou, you know.’

‘My dear Miss Trotwood,’ she replied, ‘I shall only be too happyto think that anyone expects to hear from us. I shall not fail to corre-spond. Mr. Copperfield, I trust, as an old and familiar friend, willnot object to receive occasional intelligence, himself, from one whoknew him when the twins were yet unconscious?’

I said that I should hope to hear, whenever she had an opportunityof writing.

‘Please Heaven, there will be many such opportunities,’ said Mr.

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Micawber. ‘The ocean, in these times, is a perfect fleet of ships; andwe can hardly fail to encounter many, in running over. It is merelycrossing,’ said Mr. Micawber, trifling with his eye-glass, ‘merely cross-ing. The distance is quite imaginary.’

I think, now, how odd it was, but how wonderfully like Mr.Micawber, that, when he went from London to Canterbury, he shouldhave talked as if he were going to the farthest limits of the earth; and,when he went from England to Australia, as if he were going for alittle trip across the channel.

‘On the voyage, I shall endeavour,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘occasionallyto spin them a yarn; and the melody of my son Wilkins will, I trust, beacceptable at the galley-fire. When Mrs. Micawber has her sea-legs on—an expression in which I hope there is no conventional impropriety—she will give them, I dare say, “Little Tafflin”. Porpoises and dolphins,I believe, will be frequently observed athwart our Bows; and, either onthe starboard or the larboard quarter, objects of interest will be con-tinually descried. In short,’ said Mr. Micawber, with the old genteel air,‘the probability is, all will be found so exciting, alow and aloft, thatwhen the lookout, stationed in the main-top, cries Land-oh! we shallbe very considerably astonished!’

With that he flourished off the contents of his little tin pot, as ifhe had made the voyage, and had passed a first-class examinationbefore the highest naval authorities.

‘ What I chiefly hope, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs.Micawber, ‘is, that in some branches of our family we may live againin the old country. Do not frown, Micawber! I do not now refer tomy own family, but to our children’s children. However vigorousthe sapling,’ said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, ‘I cannot forgetthe parent-tree; and when our race attains to eminence and fortune, Iown I should wish that fortune to flow into the coffers of Britannia.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘Britannia must take her chance. Iam bound to say that she has never done much for me, and that Ihave no particular wish upon the subject.’

‘Micawber,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, ‘there, you are wrong. Youare going out, Micawber, to this distant clime, to strengthen, not toweaken, the connexion between yourself and Albion.’

‘The connexion in question, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Micawber, ‘has

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not laid me, I repeat, under that load of personal obligation, that I am atall sensitive as to the formation of another connexion.’

‘Micawber,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘There, I again say, you arewrong. You do not know your power, Micawber. It is that whichwill strengthen, even in this step you are about to take, the connexionbetween yourself and Albion.’

Mr. Micawber sat in his elbow-chair, with his eyebrows raised;half receiving and half repudiating Mrs. Micawber’s views as theywere stated, but very sensible of their foresight.

‘My dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I wish Mr.Micawber to feel his position. It appears to me highly importantthat Mr. Micawber should, from the hour of his embarkation, feelhis position. Your old knowledge of me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,will have told you that I have not the sanguine disposition of Mr.Micawber. My disposition is, if I may say so, eminently practical. Iknow that this is a long voyage. I know that it will involve manyprivations and inconveniences. I cannot shut my eyes to thosefacts. But I also know what Mr. Micawber is. I know the latentpower of Mr. Micawber. And therefore I consider it vitally impor-tant that Mr. Micawber should feel his position.’

‘My love,’ he observed, ‘perhaps you will allow me to remark thatit is barely possible that I do feel my position at the present mo-ment.’

‘I think not, Micawber,’ she rejoined. ‘Not fully. My dear Mr.Copperfield, Mr. Micawber’s is not a common case. Mr. Micawberis going to a distant country expressly in order that he may be fullyunderstood and appreciated for the first time. I wish Mr. Micawberto take his stand upon that vessel’s prow, and firmly say, “This coun-try I am come to conquer! Have you honours? Have you riches?Have you posts of profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them bebrought forward. They are mine!”’

Mr. Micawber, glancing at us all, seemed to think there was a gooddeal in this idea.

‘I wish Mr. Micawber, if I make myself understood,’ said Mrs.Micawber, in her argumentative tone, ‘to be the Caesar of his ownfortunes. That, my dear Mr. Copperfield, appears to me to be his trueposition. From the first moment of this voyage, I wish Mr. Micawber

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to stand upon that vessel’s prow and say, “Enough of delay: enough ofdisappointment: enough of limited means. That was in the old coun-try. This is the new. Produce your reparation. Bring it forward!”’

Mr. Micawber folded his arms in a resolute manner, as if he werethen stationed on the figure-head.

‘And doing that,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘—feeling his position—am I not right in saying that Mr. Micawber will strengthen, and notweaken, his connexion with Britain? An important public characterarising in that hemisphere, shall I be told that its influence will notbe felt at home? Can I be so weak as to imagine that Mr. Micawber,wielding the rod of talent and of power in Australia, will be nothingin England? I am but a woman; but I should be unworthy of myselfand of my papa, if I were guilty of such absurd weakness.’

Mrs. Micawber’s conviction that her arguments were unanswer-able, gave a moral elevation to her tone which I think I had neverheard in it before.

‘And therefore it is,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that I the more wish,that, at a future period, we may live again on the parent soil. Mr.Micawber may be—I cannot disguise from myself that theprobability is, Mr. Micawber will be—a page of History; and heought then to be represented in the country which gave him birth,and did not give him employment!’

‘My love,’ observed Mr. Micawber, ‘it is impossible for me not tobe touched by your affection. I am always willing to defer to yourgood sense. What will be—will be. Heaven forbid that I should grudgemy native country any portion of the wealth that may be accumu-lated by our descendants!’

‘That’s well,’ said my aunt, nodding towards Mr. Peggotty, ‘and Idrink my love to you all, and every blessing and success attend you!’

Mr. Peggotty put down the two children he had been nursing, oneon each knee, to join Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in drinking to all of usin return; and when he and the Micawbers cordially shook hands ascomrades, and his brown face brightened with a smile, I felt that hewould make his way, establish a good name, and be beloved, gowhere he would.

Even the children were instructed, each to dip a wooden spoon intoMr. Micawber’s pot, and pledge us in its contents. When this was

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done, my aunt and Agnes rose, and parted from the emigrants. It wasa sorrowful farewell. They were all crying; the children hung aboutAgnes to the last; and we left poor Mrs. Micawber in a very distressedcondition, sobbing and weeping by a dim candle, that must have madethe room look, from the river, like a miserable light-house.

I went down again next morning to see that they were away. Theyhad departed, in a boat, as early as five o’clock. It was a wonderfulinstance to me of the gap such partings make, that although myassociation of them with the tumble-down public-house and thewooden stairs dated only from last night, both seemed dreary anddeserted, now that they were gone.

In the afternoon of the next day, my old nurse and I went downto Gravesend. We found the ship in the river, surrounded by acrowd of boats; a favourable wind blowing; the signal for sailing ather mast-head. I hired a boat directly, and we put off to her; andgetting through the little vortex of confusion of which she was thecentre, went on board.

Mr. Peggotty was waiting for us on deck. He told me that Mr.Micawber had just now been arrested again (and for the last time) atthe suit of Heep, and that, in compliance with a request I had madeto him, he had paid the money, which I repaid him. He then took usdown between decks; and there, any lingering fears I had of his hav-ing heard any rumours of what had happened, were dispelled by Mr.Micawber’s coming out of the gloom, taking his arm with an air offriendship and protection, and telling me that they had scarcely beenasunder for a moment, since the night before last.

It was such a strange scene to me, and so confined and dark, that,at first, I could make out hardly anything; but, by degrees, it cleared,as my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, and I seemed tostand in a picture by Ostade. Among the great beams, bulks, andringbolts of the ship, and the emigrant-berths, and chests, and bundles,and barrels, and heaps of miscellaneous baggage— ‘lighted up, hereand there, by dangling lanterns; and elsewhere by the yellow daylightstraying down a windsail or a hatchway—were crowded groups ofpeople, making new friendships, taking leave of one another, talk-ing, laughing, crying, eating and drinking; some, already settled downinto the possession of their few feet of space, with their little house-

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holds arranged, and tiny children established on stools, or in dwarfelbow-chairs; others, despairing of a resting-place, and wandering dis-consolately. From babies who had but a week or two of life behindthem, to crooked old men and women who seemed to have but aweek or two of life before them; and from ploughmen bodily carry-ing out soil of England on their boots, to smiths taking away samplesof its soot and smoke upon their skins; every age and occupationappeared to be crammed into the narrow compass of the ‘tween decks.

As my eye glanced round this place, I thought I saw sitting, by anopen port, with one of the Micawber children near her, a figure likeEmily’s; it first attracted my attention, by another figureparting from it with a kiss; and as it glided calmly away through thedisorder, reminding me of—Agnes! But in the rapid motion and con-fusion, and in the unsettlement of my own thoughts, I lost it again;and only knew that the time was come when all visitors were beingwarned to leave the ship; that my nurse was crying on a chest besideme; and that Mrs. Gummidge, assisted by some younger stoopingwoman in black, was busily arranging Mr. Peggotty’s goods.

‘Is there any last wured, Mas’r Davy?’ said he. ‘Is there any oneforgotten thing afore we parts?’

‘One thing!’ said I. ‘Martha!’He touched the younger woman I have mentioned on the shoul-

der, and Martha stood before me.‘Heaven bless you, you good man!’ cried I. ‘You take her with you!’She answered for him, with a burst of tears. I could speak no more

at that time, but I wrung his hand; and if ever I have loved andhonoured any man, I loved and honoured that man in my soul.

The ship was clearing fast of strangers. The greatest trial that I had,remained. I told him what the noble spirit that was gone, had givenme in charge to say at parting. It moved him deeply. But when hecharged me, in return, with many messages of affection and regretfor those deaf ears, he moved me more.

The time was come. I embraced him, took my weeping nurseupon my arm, and hurried away. On deck, I took leave of poor Mrs.Micawber. She was looking distractedly about for her family, eventhen; and her last words to me were, that she never would desert Mr.Micawber.

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We went over the side into our boat, and lay at a little distance, tosee the ship wafted on her course. It was then calm, radiant sunset.She lay between us, and the red light; and every taper line and sparwas visible against the glow. A sight at once so beautiful, so mourn-ful, and so hopeful, as the glorious ship, lying, still, on the flushedwater, with all the life on board hercrowded at the bulwarks, and there clustering, for a moment, bare-headedand silent, I never saw.

Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind, and theship began to move, there broke from all the boats three resoundingcheers, which those on board took up, and echoed back, and whichwere echoed and re-echoed. My heart burst out when I heard thesound, and beheld the waving of the hats and handkerchiefs—andthen I saw her!

Then I saw her, at her uncle’s side, and trembling on his shoulder.He pointed to us with an eager hand; and she saw us, and waved herlast good-bye to me. Aye, Emily, beautiful and drooping, cling tohim with the utmost trust of thy bruised heart; for he has clung tothee, with all the might of his great love!

Surrounded by the rosy light, and standing high upon the deck,apart together, she clinging to him, and he holding her, they sol-emnly passed away. The night had fallen on the Kentish hills whenwe were rowed ashore—and fallen darkly upon me.

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CHAPTER 58ABSENCE

IT WAS A LONG AND GLOOMY NIGHT that gathered on me, haunted bythe ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors,many unavailing sorrows and regrets.

I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how greatthe shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, andwent away; and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As a manupon a field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and scarcely knowthat he is struck, so I, when I was left alone with my undisciplinedheart, had no conception of the wound with which it had to strive.

The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little,and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad,deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss andsorrow, wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible de-grees, it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost—love,friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered—my first trust,my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that re-mained—a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbro-ken, to the dark horizon.

If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I mourned formy child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so young. I mournedfor him who might have won the love and admiration ofthousands, as he had won mine long ago. I mourned for the brokenheart that had found rest in the stormy sea; and for the wanderingremnants of the simple home, where I had heard the night-windblowing, when I was a child.

From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at length nohope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to place, carrying my

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burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I droopedbeneath it, and I said in my heart that it could never be lightened.

When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I shoulddie. Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; andactually turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. Atother times, I passed on farther away, —from city to city, seeking Iknow not what, and trying to leave I know not what behind.

It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary phases ofdistress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams thatcan only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I obligemyself to look back on this time of my life, I seem to be recallingsuch a dream. I see myself passing on among the novelties of foreigntowns, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pictures, castles, tombs, fantasticstreets—the old abiding places of History and Fancy—as a dreamermight; bearing my painful load through all, and hardly conscious ofthe objects as they fade before me. Listlessness to everything, butbrooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart.Let me look up from it—as at last I did, thank Heaven!—and fromits long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn.

For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud uponmy mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home—reasons then struggling within me, vainly, for more distinct expres-sion—kept me on my pilgrimage. Sometimes, I had proceeded rest-lessly from place to place, stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had lin-gered long in one spot. I had had no purpose, no sustaining soulwithin me, anywhere.

I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of the greatpasses of the Alps, and had since wandered with a guide among theby-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken tomy heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder inthe dread heights and precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastesof ice and snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing else.

I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I wasto rest. In the course of my descent to it, by the winding track alongthe mountain-side, from which I saw it shining far below, I thinksome long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity, some soften-ing influence awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I

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remember pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all op-pressive, not quite despairing. I remember almost hoping that somebetter change was possible within me.

I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the re-mote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds. The basesof the mountains forming the gorge in which the little village lay,were richly green; and high above this gentler vegetation, grew for-ests of dark fir, cleaving the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stem-ming the avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggysteeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture,all gradually blending with the crowning snow. Dotted here and thereon the mountain’s-side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely woodencottages, so dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared toosmall for toys. So did even the clustered village in the valley, with itswooden bridge across the stream, where the stream tumbled overbroken rocks, and roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, therewas a sound of distant singing—shepherd voices; but, as one brightevening cloud floated midway along the mountain’s-side, I couldalmost have believed it came from there, and was not earthly music.All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothedme to lay down my weary head upon the grass, and weep as I had notwept yet, since Dora died!

I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutesbefore, and had strolled out of the village to read them while mysupper was making ready. Other packets had missed me, and I hadreceived none for a long time. Beyond a line or two, to say that I waswell, and had arrived at such a place, I had not had fortitude or con-stancy to write a letter since I left home.

The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the writingof Agnes.

She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had hoped. Thatwas all she told me of herself. The rest referred to me.

She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only toldme, in her own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew(she said) how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good.She knew how trial and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. Shewas sure that in my every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher

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tendency, through the grief I had undergone. She, who so gloried inmy fame, and so looked forward to its augmentation, well knewthat I would labour on. She knew that in me, sorrow could not beweakness, but must be strength. As the endurance of my childishdays had done its part to make me what I was, so greater calamitieswould nerve me on, to be yet better than I was; and so, as they hadtaught me, would I teach others. She commended me to God, whohad taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly affec-tion cherished me always, and was always at my side go whereI would; proud of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet ofwhat I was reserved to do.

I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been an hourago! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the quiet eveningcloud grow dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and the goldensnow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the palenight sky, yet felt that the night was passing from my mind, and allits shadows clearing, there was no name for the love I bore her, dearerto me, henceforward, than ever until then.

I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I told herthat I had been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not,and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she inspired meto be that, and I would try.

I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since thebeginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions untilthe expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in that valley,and its neighbourhood, all the time.

The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home forsome time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland,which was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening;to resume my pen; to work.

I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I soughtout Nature, never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast thehuman interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before Ihad almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when Ileft it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in thespring, their cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, althoughthey were not conveyed in English words.

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I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with apurpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it toTraddles, and he arranged for its publication very advantageously forme; and the tidings of my growing reputation began to reach mefrom travellers whom I encountered by chance. After some rest andchange, I fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, whichtook strong possession of me. As I advanced in the execution of thistask, I felt it more and more, and roused my utmost energies to do itwell. This was my third work of fiction. It was not half written,when, in an interval of rest, I thought of returning home.

For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had ac-customed myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired whenI left England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had been in manycountries, and I hope I had improved my store of knowledge.

I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall here, of thisterm of absence—with one reservation. I have made it, thus far, withno purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; for, as I have else-where said, this narrative is my written memory. I have desired tokeep the most secret current of my mind apart, and to the last. Ienter on it now. I cannot so completely penetrate the mystery of myown heart, as to know when I began to think that I might have set itsearliest and brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannotsay at what stage of my grief it first became associated with the reflec-tion, that, in my wayward boyhood, I had thrown away the treasureof her love. I believe I may have heard some whisper of that distantthought, in the old unhappy loss or want of something never to berealized, of which I had been sensible. But the thought came into mymind as a new reproach and new regret, when I was left so sad andlonely in the world.

If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the weak-ness of my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what I remotelydreaded when I was first impelled to stay away from England. I couldnot have borne to lose the smallest portion of her sisterly affection;yet, in that betrayal, I should have set a constraint between us hith-erto unknown.

I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regardedme had grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had

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ever loved me with another love—and I sometimes thought the timewas when she might have done so—I had cast it away. It was noth-ing, now, that I had accustomed myself to think of her, when wewere both mere children, as one who was far removed from my wildfancies. I had bestowed my passionate tenderness upon another ob-ject; and what I might have done, I had not done; and what Agneswas to me, I and her own noble heart had made her.

In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in me, whenI tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man, Idid glance, through some indefinite probation, to a period when Imight possibly hope to cancel the mistaken past, and to be so blessedas to marry her. But, as time wore on, this shadowy prospect faded,and departed from me. If she had ever loved me, then, I should holdher the more sacred; remembering the confidences I had reposed inher, her knowledge of my errant heart, the sacrifice she must havemade to be my friend and sister, and the victory she had won. If shehad never loved me, could I believe that she would love me now?

I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her constancyand fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I mighthave been to her, or she to me, if I had been more worthy of her longago, I was not now, and she was not. The time was past. I had let itgo by, and had deservedly lost her.

That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled me withunhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sustaining sense that itwas required of me, in right and honour, to keep away from myself,with shame, the thought of turning to the dear girl in the withering ofmy hopes, from whom I had frivolously turned when they were brightand fresh—which consideration was at the root of every thought I hadconcerning her—is all equally true. I made no effort to conceal frommyself, now, that I loved her, that I was devoted to her; but I broughtthe assurance home to myself, that it was now too late, and that ourlong-subsisting relation must be undisturbed.

I had thought, much and often, of my Dora’s shadowing out tome what might have happened, in those years that were destined notto try us; I had considered how the things that never happen, areoften as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accom-plished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my cor-

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rection; and would have been, one day, a little later perhaps, thoughwe had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured to convert whatmight have been between myself and Agnes, into a means of makingme more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious of myself,and my defects and errors. Thus, through the reflection that it mighthave been, I arrived at the conviction that it could never be.

These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were the shift-ing quicksands of my mind, from the time of my departure to thetime of my return home, three years afterwards. Three years hadelapsed since the sailing of the emigrant ship; when, at that samehour of sunset, and in the same place, I stood on the deck of thepacket vessel that brought me home, looking on the rosy water whereI had seen the image of that ship reflected.

Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they went by.And home was very dear to me, and Agnes too—but she was not mine—she was never to be mine. She might have been, but that was past!

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CHAPTER 59RETURN

I LANDED IN LONDON on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark andraining, and I saw more fog and mud in a minute than I had seen ina year. I walked from the Custom House to the Monument before Ifound a coach; and although the very house-fronts, looking on theswollen gutters, were like old friends to me, I could not but admitthat they were very dingy friends.

I have often remarked—I suppose everybody has—that one’s go-ing away from a familiar place, would seem to be the signal for changein it. As I looked out of the coach window, and observed that an oldhouse on Fish-street Hill, which had stood untouched by painter,carpenter, or bricklayer, for a century, had been pulled down in myabsence; and that a neighbouring street, oftime-honoured insalubrity and inconvenience, was being drained andwidened; I half expected to find St. Paul’s Cathedral looking older.

For some changes in the fortunes of my friends, I was prepared.My aunt had long been re-established at Dover, and Traddles hadbegun to get into some little practice at the Bar, in the very first termafter my departure. He had chambers in Gray’s Inn, now; and hadtold me, in his last letters, that he was not without hopes of beingsoon united to the dearest girl in the world.

They expected me home before Christmas; but had no idea of myreturning so soon. I had purposely misled them, that I might havethe pleasure of taking them by surprise. And yet, I was perverse enoughto feel a chill and disappointment in receiving no welcome, and rat-tling, alone and silent, through the misty streets.

The well-known shops, however, with their cheerful lights, did some-

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thing for me; and when I alighted at the door of the Gray’s Inn Coffee-house, I had recovered my spirits. It recalled, at first, that so-differenttime when I had put up at the Golden Cross, and reminded me of thechanges that had come to pass since then; but that was natural.

‘Do you know where Mr. Traddles lives in the Inn?’ I asked thewaiter, as I warmed myself by the coffee-room fire.

‘Holborn Court, sir. Number two.’‘Mr. Traddles has a rising reputation among the lawyers, I believe?’

said I.‘Well, sir,’ returned the waiter, ‘probably he has, sir; but I am not

aware of it myself.’This waiter, who was middle-aged and spare, looked for help to a

waiter of more authority—a stout, potential old man, with a doublechin, in black breeches and stockings, who came out of a place like achurchwarden’s pew, at the end of the coffee-room, where he keptcompany with a cash-box, a Directory, a Law-list, and other booksand papers.

‘Mr. Traddles,’ said the spare waiter. ‘Number two in the Court.’The potential waiter waved him away, and turned, gravely, to me.‘I was inquiring,’ said I, ‘whether Mr. Traddles, at number two in

the Court, has not a rising reputation among the lawyers?’‘Never heard his name,’ said the waiter, in a rich husky voice.I felt quite apologetic for Traddles.‘He’s a young man, sure?’ said the portentous waiter, fixing his

eyes severely on me. ‘How long has he been in the Inn?’‘Not above three years,’ said I.The waiter, who I supposed had lived in his churchwarden’s pew

for forty years, could not pursue such an insignificant subject. Heasked me what I would have for dinner?

I felt I was in England again, and really was quite cast down onTraddles’s account. There seemed to be no hope for him. I meeklyordered a bit of fish and a steak, and stood before the fire musing onhis obscurity.

As I followed the chief waiter with my eyes, I could not help think-ing that the garden in which he had gradually blown to be the flowerhe was, was an arduous place to rise in. It had such a prescriptive,stiff-necked, long-established, solemn, elderly air. I glanced about

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the room, which had had its sanded floor sanded, no doubt, in ex-actly the same manner when the chief waiter was a boy—if he everwas a boy, which appeared improbable; and at the shining tables,where I saw myself reflected, in unruffled depths of old mahogany;and at the lamps, without a flaw in their trimming or cleaning; andat the comfortable green curtains, with their pure brass rods, snuglyenclosing the boxes; and at the two large coal fires, brightly burning;and at the rows of decanters, burly as if with the consciousness ofpipes of expensive old port wine below; and both England, and thelaw, appeared to me to be very difficult indeed to be taken by storm.I went up to my bedroom to change my wet clothes; and the vastextent of that old wainscoted apartment (which was over the arch-way leading to the Inn, I remember), and the sedate immensity ofthe four-post bedstead, and the indomitable gravity of the chests ofdrawers, all seemed to unite in sternly frowning on the fortunes ofTraddles, or on any such daring youth. I came down again to mydinner; and even the slow comfort of the meal, and the orderly si-lence of the place—which was bare of guests, the Long Vacation notyet being over—were eloquent on the audacity of Traddles, and hissmall hopes of a livelihood for twenty years to come.

I had seen nothing like this since I went away, and it quite dashedmy hopes for my friend. The chief waiter had had enough of me. Hecame near me no more; but devoted himself to an old gentleman inlong gaiters, to meet whom a pint of special port seemed to comeout of the cellar of its own accord, for he gave no order. The secondwaiter informed me, in a whisper, that this old gentleman was aretired conveyancer living in the Square, and worth a mint of money,which it was expected he would leave to his laundress’s daughter;likewise that it was rumoured that he had a service of plate in a bu-reau, all tarnished with lying by, though more than one spoon and afork had never yet been beheld in his chambers by mortal vision. Bythis time, I quite gave Traddles up for lost; and settled in my ownmind that there was no hope for him.

Being very anxious to see the dear old fellow, nevertheless, I dis-patched my dinner, in a manner not at all calculated to raise me inthe opinion of the chief waiter, and hurried out by the back way.Number two in the Court was soon reached; and an inscription on

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the door-post informing me that Mr. Traddles occupied a set of cham-bers on the top storey, I ascended the staircase. A crazy old staircase Ifound it to be, feebly lighted on each landing by a club—headedlittle oil wick, dying away in a little dungeon of dirty glass.

In the course of my stumbling upstairs, I fancied I heard a pleasantsound of laughter; and not the laughter of an attorney or barrister, orattorney’s clerk or barrister’s clerk, but of two or three merry girls. Hap-pening, however, as I stopped to listen, to put my foot in a hole wherethe Honourable Society of Gray’s Inn had left a plank deficient, I felldown with some noise, and when I recovered my footing all was silent.

Groping my way more carefully, for the rest of the journey, my heartbeat high when I found the outer door, which had Mr. Traddles painted onit, open. I knocked. A considerable scuffling within ensued, but nothingelse. I therefore knocked again.

A small sharp-looking lad, half-footboy and half-clerk, who wasvery much out of breath, but who looked at me as if he defied me toprove it legally, presented himself.

‘Is Mr. Traddles within?’ I said.‘Yes, sir, but he’s engaged.’‘I want to see him.’After a moment’s survey of me, the sharp-looking lad decided to

let me in; and opening the door wider for that purpose, admittedme, first, into a little closet of a hall, and next into a little sitting-room; where I came into the presence of my old friend (also out ofbreath), seated at a table, and bending over papers.

‘Good God!’ cried Traddles, looking up. ‘It’s Copperfield!’ andrushed into my arms, where I held him tight.

‘All well, my dear Traddles?’‘All well, my dear, dear Copperfield, and nothing but good news!’We cried with pleasure, both of us.‘My dear fellow,’ said Traddles, rumpling his hair in his excite-

ment, which was a most unnecessary operation, ‘my dearestCopperfield, my long-lost and most welcome friend, how glad I amto see you! How brown you are! How glad I am! Upon my life andhonour, I never was so rejoiced, my beloved Copperfield, never!’

I was equally at a loss to express my emotions. I was quite unableto speak, at first.

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‘My dear fellow!’ said Traddles. ‘And grown so famous! My glori-ous Copperfield! Good gracious me, when did you come, wherehave you come from, what have you been doing?’

Never pausing for an answer to anything he said, Traddles, whohad clapped me into an easy-chair by the fire, all this time impetu-ously stirred the fire with one hand, and pulled at my neck-kerchiefwith the other, under some wild delusion that it was a great-coat.Without putting down the poker, he now hugged me again; and Ihugged him; and, both laughing, and both wiping our eyes, we bothsat down, and shook hands across the hearth.

‘To think,’ said Traddles, ‘that you should have been so nearly com-ing home as you must have been, my dear old boy, and not at theceremony!’

‘What ceremony, my dear Traddles?’‘Good gracious me!’ cried Traddles, opening his eyes in his old

way. ‘Didn’t you get my last letter?’‘Certainly not, if it referred to any ceremony.’‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, sticking his hair up-

right with both hands, and then putting his hands on my knees, ‘Iam married!’

‘Married!’ I cried joyfully.‘Lord bless me, yes,!’ said Traddles—’by the Reverend Horace—

to Sophy—down in Devonshire. Why, my dear boy, she’s behindthe window curtain! Look here!’

To my amazement, the dearest girl in the world came at that sameinstant, laughing and blushing, from her place of concealment. Anda more cheerful, amiable, honest, happy, bright-looking bride, I be-lieve (as I could not help saying on the spot) the world never saw. Ikissed her as an old acquaintance should, and wished them joy withall my might of heart.

‘Dear me,’ said Traddles, ‘what a delightful re-union this is! Youare so extremely brown, my dear Copperfield! God bless my soul,how happy I am!’

‘And so am I,’ said I.‘And I am sure I am!’ said the blushing and laughing Sophy.‘We are all as happy as possible!’ said Traddles. ‘Even the girls are

happy. Dear me, I declare I forgot them!’

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‘Forgot?’ said I.‘The girls,’ said Traddles. ‘Sophy’s sisters. They are staying with us.

They have come to have a peep at London. The fact is, when—was ityou that tumbled upstairs, Copperfield?’

‘It was,’ said I, laughing.‘Well then, when you tumbled upstairs,’ said Traddles, ‘I was romp-

ing with the girls. In point of fact, we were playing at Puss in theCorner. But as that wouldn’t do in Westminster Hall, and as itwouldn’t look quite professional if they were seen by a client, theydecamped. And they are now—listening, I have no doubt,’ saidTraddles, glancing at the door of another room.

‘I am sorry,’ said I, laughing afresh, ‘to have occasioned such adispersion.’

‘Upon my word,’ rejoined Traddles, greatly delighted, ‘if you hadseen them running away, and running back again, after you hadknocked, to pick up the combs they had dropped out of their hair,and going on in the maddest manner, you wouldn’t have said so. Mylove, will you fetch the girls?’

Sophy tripped away, and we heard her received in the adjoiningroom with a peal of laughter.

‘Really musical, isn’t it, my dear Copperfield?’ said Traddles. ‘It’svery agreeable to hear. It quite lights up these old rooms. To an un-fortunate bachelor of a fellow who has lived alone all hislife, you know, it’s positively delicious. It’s charming. Poor things,they have had a great loss in Sophy—who, I do assure you,Copperfield is, and ever was, the dearest girl!—and it gratifies mebeyond expression to find them in such good spirits. The society ofgirls is a very delightful thing, Copperfield. It’s not professional, butit’s very delightful.’

Observing that he slightly faltered, and comprehending that in thegoodness of his heart he was fearful of giving me some pain by whathe had said, I expressed my concurrence with a heartiness that evi-dently relieved and pleased him greatly.

‘But then,’ said Traddles, ‘our domestic arrangements are, to say thetruth, quite unprofessional altogether, my dear Copperfield. Even Sophy’sbeing here, is unprofessional. And we have no other place of abode. Wehave put to sea in a cockboat, but we are quite prepared to rough it. And

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Sophy’s an extraordinary manager! You’ll be surprised how those girls arestowed away. I am sure I hardly know how it’s done!’

‘Are many of the young ladies with you?’ I inquired.‘The eldest, the Beauty is here,’ said Traddles, in a low confidential

voice, ‘Caroline. And Sarah’s here—the one I mentioned to you ashaving something the matter with her spine, you know. Immenselybetter! And the two youngest that Sophy educated are with us. AndLouisa’s here.’

‘Indeed!’ cried I.‘Yes,’ said Traddles. ‘Now the whole set—I mean the chambers—

is only three rooms; but Sophy arranges for the girls in the mostwonderful way, and they sleep as comfortably as possible. Three inthat room,’ said Traddles, pointing. ‘Two in that.’

I could not help glancing round, in search of the accommodationremaining for Mr. and Mrs. Traddles. Traddles understood me.

‘Well!’ said Traddles, ‘we are prepared to rough it, as I said justnow, and we did improvise a bed last week, upon the floor here. Butthere’s a little room in the roof—a very nice room, whenyou’re up there—which Sophy papered herself, to surprise me; andthat’s our room at present. It’s a capital little gipsy sort of place.There’s quite a view from it.’

‘And you are happily married at last, my dear Traddles!’ said I.‘How rejoiced I am!’

‘Thank you, my dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, as we shook handsonce more. ‘Yes, I am as happy as it’s possible to be. There’s your oldfriend, you see,’ said Traddles, nodding triumphantly at the flower-pot and stand; ‘and there’s the table with the marble top! All theother furniture is plain and serviceable, you perceive. And as to plate,Lord bless you, we haven’t so much as a tea-spoon.’

‘All to be earned?’ said I, cheerfully.‘Exactly so,’ replied Traddles, ‘all to be earned. Of course we have

something in the shape of tea-spoons, because we stir our tea. Butthey’re Britannia metal.”

‘The silver will be the brighter when it comes,’ said I.‘The very thing we say!’ cried Traddles. ‘You see, my dear

Copperfield,’ falling again into the low confidential tone, ‘after I haddelivered my argument in doedem. Jipes versus Wigziell, which did

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me great service with the profession, I went down into Devonshire,and had some serious conversation in private with the ReverendHorace. I dwelt upon the fact that Sophy—who I do assure you,Copperfield, is the dearest girl!—’

‘I am certain she is!’ said I.‘She is, indeed!’ rejoined Traddles. ‘But I am afraid I am wander-

ing from the subject. Did I mention the Reverend Horace?’‘You said that you dwelt upon the fact—’‘True! Upon the fact that Sophy and I had been engaged for a long

period, and that Sophy, with the permission of her parents, was morethan content to take me—in short,’ said Traddles, with his old franksmile, ‘on our present Britannia-metal footing. Very well. I then pro-posed to the Reverend Horace—who is a most excellent clergyman,Copperfield, and ought to be a Bishop; or at least ought to haveenough to live upon, without pinching himself—that if I could turnthe corner, say of two hundred and fifty pounds, in one year; andcould see my way pretty clearly to that, or something better, nextyear; and could plainly furnish a little place like this, besides; then,and in that case, Sophy and I should be united. I took the liberty ofrepresenting that we had been patient for a good many years; andthat the circumstance of Sophy’s being extraordinarily useful at home,ought not to operate with her affectionate parents, against her estab-lishment in life—don’t you see?’

‘Certainly it ought not,’ said I.‘I am glad you think so, Copperfield,’ rejoined Traddles, ‘because,

without any imputation on the Reverend Horace, I do think par-ents, and brothers, and so forth, are sometimes rather selfish in suchcases. Well! I also pointed out, that my most earnest desire was, to beuseful to the family; and that if I got on in the world, and anythingshould happen to him—I refer to the Reverend Horace—’

‘I understand,’ said I.‘—Or to Mrs. Crewler—it would be the utmost gratification of

my wishes, to be a parent to the girls. He replied in a most admirablemanner, exceedingly flattering to my feelings, and undertook to ob-tain the consent of Mrs. Crewler to this arrangement. They had adreadful time of it with her. It mounted from her legs into her chest,and then into her head—’

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‘What mounted?’ I asked.‘Her grief,’ replied Traddles, with a serious look. ‘Her feelings gener-

ally. As I mentioned on a former occasion, she is a very superior woman,but has lost the use of her limbs. Whatever occurs to harass her, usuallysettles in her legs; but on this occasion it mounted to the chest, andthen to the head, and, in short, pervaded the whole system in a mostalarming manner. However, they brought her through it by unremit-ting and affectionate attention; and we were married yesterday six weeks.You have no idea what a Monster I felt, Copperfield, when I saw thewhole family crying and fainting away in every direction! Mrs. Crewlercouldn’t see me before we left—couldn’t forgive me, then, for depriv-ing her of her child—but she is a good creature, and has done so since.I had a delightful letter from her, only this morning.’

‘And in short, my dear friend,’ said I, ‘you feel as blest as you de-serve to feel!’

‘Oh! That’s your partiality!’ laughed Traddles. ‘But, indeed, I amin a most enviable state. I work hard, and read Law insatiably. I getup at five every morning, and don’t mind it at all. I hide the girls inthe daytime, and make merry with them in the evening. And I assureyou I am quite sorry that they are going home on Tuesday, which isthe day before the first day of Michaelmas Term. But here,’ saidTraddles, breaking off in his confidence, and speaking aloud, ‘Are thegirls! Mr. Copperfield, Miss Crewler—Miss Sarah—Miss Louisa—Margaret and Lucy!’

They were a perfect nest of roses; they looked so wholesome andfresh. They were all pretty, and Miss Caroline was very handsome; butthere was a loving, cheerful, fireside quality in Sophy’sbright looks, which was better than that, and which assured me thatmy friend had chosen well. We all sat round the fire; while the sharpboy, who I now divined had lost his breath in putting the papers out,cleared them away again, and produced the tea-things. After that, heretired for the night, shutting the outer door upon us with a bang.Mrs. Traddles, with perfect pleasure and composure beaming from herhousehold eyes, having made the tea, then quietly made the toast asshe sat in a corner by the fire.

She had seen Agnes, she told me while she was toasting. ‘Tom’ hadtaken her down into Kent for a wedding trip, and there she had seen

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my aunt, too; and both my aunt and Agnes were well, and they hadall talked of nothing but me. ‘Tom’ had never had me out of histhoughts, she really believed, all the time I had been away. ‘Tom’ wasthe authority for everything. ‘Tom’ was evidently the idol of her life;never to be shaken on his pedestal by any commotion; always to bebelieved in, and done homage to with the whole faith of her heart,come what might.

The deference which both she and Traddles showed towards theBeauty, pleased me very much. I don’t know that I thought it veryreasonable; but I thought it very delightful, and essentially a part oftheir character. If Traddles ever for an instant missed the tea-spoonsthat were still to be won, I have no doubt it was when he handed theBeauty her tea. If his sweet-tempered wife could have got up anyself-assertion against anyone, I am satisfied it could only have beenbecause she was the Beauty’s sister. A few slight indications of a ratherpetted and capricious manner, which I observed in the Beauty, weremanifestly considered, by Traddles and his wife, as her birthright andnatural endowment. If she had been born a Queen Bee, and theylabouring Bees, they could not have been more satisfied of that.

But their self-forgetfulness charmed me. Their pride in these girls,and their submission of themselves to all their whims, was thepleasantest little testimony to their own worth I could have desiredto see. If Traddles were addressed as ‘a darling’, once in the course ofthat evening; and besought to bring something here,or carry something there, or take something up, or put somethingdown, or find something, or fetch something, he was so addressed,by one or other of his sisters-in-law, at least twelve times in an hour.Neither could they do anything without Sophy. Somebody’s hairfell down, and nobody but Sophy could put it up. Somebody forgothow a particular tune went, and nobody but Sophy could hum thattune right. Somebody wanted to recall the name of a place inDevonshire, and only Sophy knew it. Something was wanted to bewritten home, and Sophy alone could be trusted to write beforebreakfast in the morning. Somebody broke down in a piece of knit-ting, and no one but Sophy was able to put the defaulter in the rightdirection. They were entire mistresses of the place, and Sophy andTraddles waited on them. How many children Sophy could have

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taken care of in her time, I can’t imagine; but she seemed to be fa-mous for knowing every sort of song that ever was addressed to achild in the English tongue; and she sang dozens to order with theclearest little voice in the world, one after another (every sister issuingdirections for a different tune, and the Beauty generally striking inlast), so that I was quite fascinated. The best of all was, that, in themidst of their exactions, all the sisters had a great tenderness andrespect both for Sophy and Traddles. I am sure, when I took myleave, and Traddles was coming out to walk with me to the coffee-house, I thought I had never seen an obstinate head of hair, or anyother head of hair, rolling about in such a shower of kisses.

Altogether, it was a scene I could not help dwelling on with plea-sure, for a long time after I got back and had wished Traddles goodnight. If I had beheld a thousand roses blowing in a top set of cham-bers, in that withered Gray’s Inn, they could not have brightened ithalf so much. The idea of those Devonshire girls, among the drylaw-stationers and the attorneys’ offices; and of the tea and toast, andchildren’s songs, in that grim atmosphere of pounce and parchment,red-tape, dusty wafers, ink-jars, brief and draft paper, law reports,writs, declarations, and bills of costs; seemed almost as pleasantlyfanciful as if I had dreamed that the Sultan’s famous family had beenadmitted on the roll of attorneys, and had brought the talking bird,the singing tree, and the golden water into Gray’s Inn Hall. Some-how, I found that I had taken leave of Traddles for the night, andcome back to the coffee-house, with a great change in my despon-dency about him. I began to think he would get on, in spite of all themany orders of chief waiters in England.

Drawing a chair before one of the coffee-room fires to think abouthim at my leisure, I gradually fell from the consideration of his hap-piness to tracing prospects in the live-coals, and to thinking, as theybroke and changed, of the principal vicissitudes and separations thathad marked my life. I had not seen a coal fire, since I had left En-gland three years ago: though many a wood fire had I watched, as itcrumbled into hoary ashes, and mingled with the feathery heap uponthe hearth, which not inaptly figured to me, in my despondency, myown dead hopes.

I could think of the past now, gravely, but not bitterly; and could

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contemplate the future in a brave spirit. Home, in its best sense, wasfor me no more. She in whom I might have inspired a dearer love, Ihad taught to be my sister. She would marry, and would have newclaimants on her tenderness; and in doing it, would never know thelove for her that had grown up in my heart. It was right that I shouldpay the forfeit of my headlong passion. What I reaped, I had sown.

I was thinking. And had I truly disciplined my heart to this, andcould I resolutely bear it, and calmly hold the place in her homewhich she had calmly held in mine,—when I found my eyes restingon a countenance that might have arisen out of the fire, in its associa-tion with my early remembrances.

Little Mr. Chillip the Doctor, to whose good offices I was indebtedin the very first chapter of this history, sat reading a newspaper in theshadow of an opposite corner. He was tolerably stricken in years bythis time; but, being a mild, meek, calm little man, had worn so easily,that I thought he looked at that moment just as he might have lookedwhen he sat in our parlour, waiting for me to be born.

Mr. Chillip had left Blunderstone six or seven years ago, and I hadnever seen him since. He sat placidly perusing the newspaper, with hislittle head on one side, and a glass of warm sherry negus at his elbow.He was so extremely conciliatory in his manner that he seemed toapologize to the very newspaper for taking the liberty of reading it.

I walked up to where he was sitting, and said, ‘How do you do,Mr. Chillip?’

He was greatly fluttered by this unexpected address from a stranger,and replied, in his slow way, ‘I thank you, sir, you are very good.Thank you, sir. I hope you are well.’

‘You don’t remember me?’ said I.‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr. Chillip, smiling very meekly, and shaking

his head as he surveyed me, ‘I have a kind of an impression thatsomething in your countenance is familiar to me, sir; but I couldn’tlay my hand upon your name, really.’

‘And yet you knew it, long before I knew it myself,’ I returned.‘Did I indeed, sir?’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Is it possible that I had the

honour, sir, of officiating when—?’‘Yes,’ said I.‘Dear me!’ cried Mr. Chillip. ‘But no doubt you are a good deal

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changed since then, sir?’‘Probably,’ said I.‘Well, sir,’ observed Mr. Chillip, ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, if I am

compelled to ask the favour of your name?’On my telling him my name, he was really moved. He quite shook

hands with me—which was a violent proceeding for him, his usualcourse being to slide a tepid little fish-slice, an inch or two in advanceof his hip, and evince the greatest discomposure when anybody grappledwith it. Even now, he put his hand in his coat-pocket as soon as hecould disengage it, and seemed relieved when he had got it safe back.

‘Dear me, sir!’ said Mr. Chillip, surveying me with his head on oneside. ‘And it’s Mr. Copperfield, is it? Well, sir, I think I should haveknown you, if I had taken the liberty of looking more closely at you.There’s a strong resemblance between you and your poor father, sir.’

‘I never had the happiness of seeing my father,’ I observed.‘Very true, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, in a soothing tone. ‘And very much

to be deplored it was, on all accounts! We are not ignorant, sir,’ saidMr. Chillip, slowly shaking his little head again, ‘down in our part ofthe country, of your fame. There must be great excitement here, sir,’said Mr. Chillip, tapping himself on the forehead with his forefinger.‘You must find it a trying occupation, sir!’

‘What is your part of the country now?’ I asked, seating myselfnear him.

‘I am established within a few miles of Bury St. Edmund’s, sir,’said Mr. Chillip. ‘Mrs. Chillip, coming into a little property in thatneighbourhood, under her father’s will, I bought a practice downthere, in which you will be glad to hear I am doing well. My daugh-ter is growing quite a tall lass now, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, giving hislittle head another little shake. ‘Her mother let down two tucks inher frocks only last week. Such is time, you see, sir!’

As the little man put his now empty glass to his lips, when hemade this reflection, I proposed to him to have it refilled, and Iwould keep him company with another. ‘Well, sir,’ he returned, inhis slow way, ‘it’s more than I am accustomed to; but I can’t denymyself the pleasure of your conversation. It seems but yesterday thatI had the honour of attending you in the measles. You came throughthem charmingly, sir!’

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I acknowledged this compliment, and ordered the negus, whichwas soon produced. ‘Quite an uncommon dissipation!’ said Mr.Chillip, stirring it, ‘but I can’t resist so extraordinary an occasion. Youhave no family, sir?’

I shook my head.‘I was aware that you sustained a bereavement, sir, some time ago,’

said Mr. Chillip. ‘I heard it from your father-in-law’s sister. Verydecided character there, sir?’

‘Why, yes,’ said I, ‘decided enough. Where did you see her, Mr.Chillip?’

‘Are you not aware, sir,’ returned Mr. Chillip, with his placidestsmile, ‘that your father-in-law is again a neighbour of mine?’

‘No,’ said I.‘He is indeed, sir!’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Married a young lady of that

part, with a very good little property, poor thing.—And this action ofthe brain now, sir? Don’t you find it fatigue you?’ said Mr. Chillip,looking at me like an admiring Robin.

I waived that question, and returned to the Murdstones. ‘I wasaware of his being married again. Do you attend the family?’ I asked.

‘Not regularly. I have been called in,’ he replied. ‘Strong phreno-logical developments of the organ of firmness, in Mr. Murdstoneand his sister, sir.’

I replied with such an expressive look, that Mr. Chillip wasemboldened by that, and the negus together, to give his head severalshort shakes, and thoughtfully exclaim, ‘Ah, dear me! We rememberold times, Mr. Copperfield!’

‘And the brother and sister are pursuing their old course, are they?’said I.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Chillip, ‘a medical man, being so much infamilies, ought to have neither eyes nor ears for anything but hisprofession. Still, I must say, they are very severe, sir: both as to thislife and the next.’

‘The next will be regulated without much reference to them, Idare say,’ I returned: ‘what are they doing as to this?’

Mr. Chillip shook his head, stirred his negus, and sipped it.‘She was a charming woman, sir!’ he observed in a plaintive manner.‘The present Mrs. Murdstone?’

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A charming woman indeed, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip; ‘as amiable, I amsure, as it was possible to be! Mrs. Chillip’s opinion is, that her spirithas been entirely broken since her marriage, and that she is all butmelancholy mad. And the ladies,’ observed Mr. Chillip, timorously,‘are great observers, sir.’

‘I suppose she was to be subdued and broken to their detestablemould, Heaven help her!’ said I. ‘And she has been.’

‘Well, sir, there were violent quarrels at first, I assure you,’ said Mr. Chillip;‘but she is quite a shadow now. Would it be considered forward if I was tosay to you, sir, in confidence, that since the sister came to help, the brotherand sister between them have nearly reduced her to a state of imbecility?’

I told him I could easily believe it.‘I have no hesitation in saying,’ said Mr. Chillip, fortifying himself with

another sip of negus, ‘between you and me, sir, that her mother died of it—orthat tyranny, gloom, and worry have made Mrs. Murdstone nearly imbecile.She was a lively young woman, sir, before marriage, and their gloom andausterity destroyed her. They go about with her, now, more like her keepersthan her husband and sister-in-law. That was Mrs. Chillip’s remark to me, onlylast week. And I assure you, sir, the ladies are great observers. Mrs. Chillip herselfis a great observer!’

‘Does he gloomily profess to be (I am ashamed to use the word insuch association) religious still?’ I inquired.

‘You anticipate, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, his eyelids getting quite redwith the unwonted stimulus in which he was indulging. ‘One ofMrs. Chillip’s most impressive remarks. Mrs. Chillip,’ he proceeded,in the calmest and slowest manner, ‘quite electrified me, by pointingout that Mr. Murdstone sets up an image of himself, and calls it theDivine Nature. You might have knocked me down on the flat of myback, sir, with the feather of a pen, I assure you, when Mrs. Chillipsaid so. The ladies are great observers, sir?’

‘Intuitively,’ said I, to his extreme delight.‘I am very happy to receive such support in my opinion, sir,’ he

rejoined. ‘It is not often that I venture to give a non-medical opinion,I assure you. Mr. Murdstone delivers public addresses sometimes, andit is said,—in short, sir, it is said by Mrs. Chillip,—that the darkertyrant he has lately been, the more ferocious is his doctrine.’

‘I believe Mrs. Chillip to be perfectly right,’ said I.

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‘Mrs. Chillip does go so far as to say,’ pursued the meekest of littlemen, much encouraged, ‘that what such people miscall their reli-gion, is a vent for their bad humours and arrogance. And do youknow I must say, sir,’ he continued, mildly laying his head on oneside, ‘that I don’t find authority for Mr. and Miss Murdstone in theNew Testament?’

‘I never found it either!’ said I.‘In the meantime, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, ‘they are much disliked;

and as they are very free in consigning everybody who dislikes themto perdition, we really have a good deal of perdition going on in ourneighbourhood! However, as Mrs. Chillip says, sir, they undergo acontinual punishment; for they are turned inward, to feed upon theirown hearts, and their own hearts are very bad feeding. Now, sir,about that brain of yours, if you’ll excuse my returning to it. Don’tyou expose it to a good deal of excitement, sir?’

I found it not difficult, in the excitement of Mr. Chillip’s ownbrain, under his potations of negus, to divert his attention from thistopic to his own affairs, on which, for the next half-hour, he wasquite loquacious; giving me to understand, among other pieces ofinformation, that he was then at the Gray’s Inn Coffee-house to layhis professional evidence before a Commission of Lunacy, touchingthe state of mind of a patient who had become deranged from exces-sive drinking.

‘And I assure you, sir,’ he said, ‘I am extremely nervous on suchoccasions. I could not support being what is called Bullied, sir. Itwould quite unman me. Do you know it was some time before Irecovered the conduct of that alarming lady, on the night of yourbirth, Mr. Copperfield?’

I told him that I was going down to my aunt, the Dragon of thatnight, early in the morning; and that she was one of the most tender-hearted and excellent of women, as he would know full well if heknew her better. The mere notion of the possibility of his ever seeingher again, appeared to terrify him. He replied with a small pale smile,‘Is she so, indeed, sir? Really?’ and almost immediately called for acandle, and went to bed, as if he were not quite safe anywhere else.He did not actually stagger under the negus; but I should think hisplacid little pulse must have made two or three more beats in a minute,

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than it had done since the great night of my aunt’s disappointment,when she struck at him with her bonnet.

Thoroughly tired, I went to bed too, at midnight; passed the nextday on the Dover coach; burst safe and sound into my aunt’s oldparlour while she was at tea (she wore spectacles now); and was re-ceived by her, and Mr. Dick, and dear old Peggotty, who acted ashousekeeper, with open arms and tears of joy. My aunt was mightilyamused, when we began to talk composedly, by my account of mymeeting with Mr. Chillip, and of his holding her in such dread re-membrance; and both she and Peggotty had a great deal to say aboutmy poor mother’s second husband, and ‘that murdering woman of asister’,—on whom I think no pain or penalty would have inducedmy aunt to bestow any Christian or Proper Name, or any otherdesignation.

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CHAPTER 60AGNES

MY AUNT AND I, when we were left alone, talked far into the night.How the emigrants never wrote home, otherwise than cheerfully andhopefully; how Mr. Micawber had actually remitted divers small sumsof money, on account of those ‘pecuniary liabilities’, in reference towhich he had been so business-like as between man and man; howJanet, returning into my aunt’s service when she came back to Dover,had finally carried out her renunciation of mankind by entering intowedlock with a thriving tavern-keeper; and how my aunt had finallyset her seal on the same great principle, by aiding and abetting thebride, and crowning the marriage-ceremony with her presence; wereamong our topics—already more or less familiar to me through theletters I had had. Mr. Dick, as usual, was not forgotten. My aunt in-formed me how he incessantly occupied himself in copying everythinghe could lay his hands on, and kept King Charles the First at a respect-ful distance by that semblance of employment; how it was one of themain joys and rewards of her life that he was free and happy, instead ofpining in monotonous restraint; and how (as a novel general conclu-sion) nobody but she could ever fully know what he was.

‘And when, Trot,’ said my aunt, patting the back of my hand, as wesat in our old way before the fire, ‘when are you going over to Canter-bury?’

‘I shall get a horse, and ride over tomorrow morning, aunt, unlessyou will go with me?’

‘No!’ said my aunt, in her short abrupt way. ‘I mean to stay whereI am.’

Then, I should ride, I said. I could not have come through Canter-bury today without stopping, if I had been coming to anyone but her.

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She was pleased, but answered, ‘Tut, Trot; MY old bones wouldhave kept till tomorrow!’ and softly patted my hand again, as I satlooking thoughtfully at the fire.

Thoughtfully, for I could not be here once more, and so near Agnes,without the revival of those regrets with which I had so long beenoccupied. Softened regrets they might be, teaching me what I hadfailed to learn when my younger life was all before me, but not theless regrets. ‘Oh, Trot,’ I seemed to hear my aunt say once more; andI understood her better now—’Blind, blind, blind!’

We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised my eyes, Ifound that she was steadily observant of me. Perhaps she had fol-lowed the current of my mind; for it seemed to me an easy one totrack now, wilful as it had been once.

‘You will find her father a white-haired old man,’ said my aunt,‘though a better man in all other respects—a reclaimed man. Nei-ther will you find him measuring all human interests, and joys, andsorrows, with his one poor little inch-rule now. Trust me, child, suchthings must shrink very much, before they can be measured off inthat way.’

‘Indeed they must,’ said I.‘You will find her,’ pursued my aunt, ‘as good, as beautiful, as

earnest, as disinterested, as she has always been. If I knew higher praise,Trot, I would bestow it on her.’

There was no higher praise for her; no higher reproach for me.Oh, how had I strayed so far away!

‘If she trains the young girls whom she has about her, to be likeherself,’ said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of her eyes withtears, ‘Heaven knows, her life will be well employed! Useful andhappy, as she said that day! How could she be otherwise than usefuland happy!’

‘Has Agnes any—’ I was thinking aloud, rather than speaking.‘Well? Hey? Any what?’ said my aunt, sharply.‘Any lover,’ said I.‘A score,’ cried my aunt, with a kind of indignant pride. ‘She might

have married twenty times, my dear, since you have been gone!’‘No doubt,’ said I. ‘No doubt. But has she any lover who is wor-

thy of her? Agnes could care for no other.’

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My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon herhand. Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said:

‘I suspect she has an attachment, Trot.’‘A prosperous one?’ said I.‘Trot,’ returned my aunt gravely, ‘I can’t say. I have no right to tell

you even so much. She has never confided it to me, but I suspect it.’She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her

tremble), that I felt now, more than ever, that she had followed mylate thoughts. I summoned all the resolutions I had made, in allthose many days and nights, and all those many conflicts of my heart.

‘If it should be so,’ I began, ‘and I hope it is—’‘I don’t know that it is,’ said my aunt curtly. ‘You must not be

ruled by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are veryslight, perhaps. I have no right to speak.’

‘If it should be so,’ I repeated, ‘Agnes will tell me at her own goodtime. A sister to whom I have confided so much, aunt, will not bereluctant to confide in me.’

My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she had turnedthem upon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. Byand by she put her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat,looking into the past, without saying another word, until we partedfor the night.

I rode away, early in the morning, for the scene of my old school-days. I cannot say that I was yet quite happy, in the hope that I wasgaining a victory over myself; even in the prospect of so soon look-ing on her face again.

The well-remembered ground was soon traversed, and I came intothe quiet streets, where every stone was a boy’s book to me. I wenton foot to the old house, and went away with a heart too full toenter. I returned; and looking, as I passed, through the low windowof the turret-room where first Uriah Heep, and afterwardsMr. Micawber, had been wont to sit, saw that it was a little parlournow, and that there was no office. Otherwise the staid old housewas, as to its cleanliness and order, still just as it had been when I firstsaw it. I requested the new maid who admitted me, to tell MissWickfield that a gentleman who waited on her from a friend abroad,was there; and I was shown up the grave old staircase (cautioned of

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the steps I knew so well), into the unchanged drawing-room. Thebooks that Agnes and I had read together, were on their shelves; andthe desk where I had laboured at my lessons, many a night, stood yetat the same old corner of the table. All the little changes that hadcrept in when the Heepswere there, were changed again. Everything was as it used to be, inthe happy time.

I stood in a window, and looked across the ancient street at theopposite houses, recalling how I had watched them on wet after-noons, when I first came there; and how I had used tospeculate about the people who appeared at any of the windows, andhad followed them with my eyes up and down stairs, while womenwent clicking along the pavement in pattens, and the dull rain fell inslanting lines, and poured out of the water-spout yonder, and flowedinto the road. The feeling with which I used to watch thetramps, as they came into the town on those wet evenings, at dusk,and limped past, with their bundles drooping over their shoulders atthe ends of sticks, came freshly back to me; fraught, as then, with thesmell of damp earth, and wet leaves and briar, and the sensation ofthe very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome journey.

The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me startand turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towardsme. She stopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, and I caught herin my arms.

‘Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you.’‘No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood!’‘Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once again!’I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were both

silent. Presently we sat down, side by side; and her angel-face wasturned upon me with the welcome I had dreamed of, waking andsleeping, for whole years.

She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good,—I owed herso much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find no utter-ance for what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank her, tried to tellher (as I had often done in letters) what an influence she had upon me;but all my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb.

With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me

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back to the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she hadvisited, in secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora’s grave.With the unerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chordsof my memory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred withinme; I could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrinkfrom nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, washer dear self, the better angel of my life?

‘And you, Agnes,’ I said, by and by. ‘Tell me of yourself. You havehardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!’

‘What should I tell?’ she answered, with her radiant smile. ‘Papa iswell. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest,our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, youknow all.’

‘All, Agnes?’ said I.She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face.‘Is there nothing else, Sister?’ I said.Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again.

She smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head.I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply

painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to disci-pline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she wasuneasy, and I let it pass.

‘You have much to do, dear Agnes?’‘With my school?’ said she, looking up again, in all her bright

composure.‘Yes. It is laborious, is it not?’‘The labour is so pleasant,’ she returned, ‘that it is scarcely grateful

in me to call it by that name.’‘Nothing good is difficult to you,’ said I.Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as she bent

her head, I saw the same sad smile.‘You will wait and see papa,’ said Agnes, cheerfully, ‘and pass the

day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We alwayscall it yours.’

I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt’s atnight; but I would pass the day there, joyfully.

‘I must be a prisoner for a little while,’ said Agnes, ‘but here are the

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old books, Trotwood, and the old music.’‘Even the old flowers are here,’ said I, looking round; ‘or the old

kinds.’‘I have found a pleasure,’ returned Agnes, smiling, ‘while you have

been absent, in keeping everything as it used to be when we werechildren. For we were very happy then, I think.’

‘Heaven knows we were!’ said I.‘And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother,’ said

Agnes, with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me, ‘has been awelcome companion. Even this,’ showing me the basket-trifle, fullof keys, still hanging at her side, ‘seems to jingle a kind of old tune!’

She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she had come.It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with religious care. It

was all that I had left myself, and it was a treasure. If I once shook thefoundations of the sacred confidence and usage, in virtue of which itwas given to me, it was lost, and could never be recovered. I set thissteadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behovedme never to forget it.

I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adver-sary the butcher—now a constable, with his staff hanging up in theshop—went down to look at the place where I had fought him; andthere meditated on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, andall the idle loves and likings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothingseemed to have survived that time but Agnes; and she, ever a starabove me, was brighter and higher.

When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a gardenhe had, a couple of miles or so out of town, where he now employedhimself almost every day. I found him as my aunt had describedhim. We sat down to dinner, with some half-dozen little girls; and heseemed but the shadow of his handsome picture on the wall.

The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet groundin my memory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr.Wickfield taking no wine, and I desiring none, we went up-stairs;where Agnes and her little charges sang and played, and worked. Af-ter tea the children left us; and we three sat together, talkingof the bygone days.

‘My part in them,’ said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head,

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‘has much matter for regret—for deep regret, and deep contrition,Trotwood, you well know. But I would not cancel it, if it were inmy power.’

I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him.‘I should cancel with it,’ he pursued, ‘such patience and devotion,

such fidelity, such a child’s love, as I must not forget, no! even toforget myself.’

‘I understand you, sir,’ I softly said. ‘I hold it—I have always heldit—in veneration.’

‘But no one knows, not even you,’ he returned, ‘how much shehas done, how much she has undergone, how hard she has striven.Dear Agnes!’

She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop him; andwas very, very pale.

‘Well, well!’ he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw, sometrial she had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion with what myaunt had told me. ‘Well! I have never told you, Trotwood, of hermother. Has anyone?’

‘Never, sir.’‘It’s not much—though it was much to suffer. She married me in

opposition to her father’s wish, and he renounced her. She prayedhim to forgive her, before my Agnes came into this world. He was avery hard man, and her mother had long been dead. He repulsed her.He broke her heart.’

Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about his neck.‘She had an affectionate and gentle heart,’ he said; ‘and it was bro-

ken. I knew its tender nature very well. No one could, if I did not.She loved me dearly, but was never happy. She was always labouring,in secret, under this distress; and being delicate and downcast at thetime of his last repulse—for it was not the first, by many—pinedaway and died. She left me Agnes, two weeks old; and the grey hairthat you recollect me with, when you first came.’ He kissed Agneson her cheek.

‘My love for my dear child was a diseased love, but my mind was allunhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not speaking of myself,Trotwood, but of her mother, and of her. If I give you any clue to whatI am, or to what I have been, you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes

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is, I need not say. I have always read something of her poor mother’sstory, in her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three areagain together, after such great changes. I have told it all.’

His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, derived a morepathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wantedanything by which to mark this night of our re-union, I should havefound it in this.

Agnes rose up from her father’s side, before long; and going softlyto her piano, played some of the old airs to which we had oftenlistened in that place.

‘Have you any intention of going away again?’ Agnes asked me, asI was standing by.

‘What does my sister say to that?’‘I hope not.’‘Then I have no such intention, Agnes.’‘I think you ought not, Trotwood, since you ask me,’ she said,

mildly. ‘Your growing reputation and success enlarge your power ofdoing good; and if I could spare my brother,’ with her eyes upon me,‘perhaps the time could not.’

‘What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know best.’‘I made you, Trotwood?’‘Yes! Agnes, my dear girl!’ I said, bending over her. ‘I tried to tell

you, when we met today, something that has been in my thoughtssince Dora died. You remember, when you came down to me in ourlittle room—pointing upward, Agnes?’

‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she returned, her eyes filled with tears. ‘So lov-ing, so confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget?’

‘As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you haveever been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me tosomething better; ever directing me to higher things!’

She only shook her head; through her tears I saw the same sadquiet smile.

‘And I am so grateful to you for it, Agnes, so bound to you, thatthere is no name for the affection of my heart. I want you to know,yet don’t know how to tell you, that all my life long I shalllook up to you, and be guided by you, as I have been through thedarkness that is past. Whatever betides, whatever new ties you may

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form, whatever changes may come between us, I shall always look toyou, and love you, as I do now, and have always done. You will alwaysbe my solace and resource, as you have always been. Until I die, mydearest sister, I shall see you always before me, pointing upward!’

She put her hand in mine, and told me she was proud of me,and of what I said; although I praised her very far beyond herworth. Then she went on softly playing, but without removingher eyes from me.

‘Do you know, what I have heard tonight, Agnes,’ said I, strangelyseems to be a part of the feeling with which I regarded you when Isaw you first—with which I sat beside you in my rough school-days?’

‘You knew I had no mother,’ she replied with a smile, ‘and feltkindly towards me.’

‘More than that, Agnes, I knew, almost as if I had known thisstory, that there was something inexplicably gentle and softened, sur-rounding you; something that might have been sorrowful in some-one else (as I can now understand it was), but was not so in you.’

She softly played on, looking at me still.‘Will you laugh at my cherishing such fancies, Agnes?’‘No!’‘Or at my saying that I really believe I felt, even then, that you

could be faithfully affectionate against all discouragement, and nevercease to be so, until you ceased to live?—Will you laughat such a dream?’

‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’For an instant, a distressful shadow crossed her face; but, even in

the start it gave me, it was gone; and she was playing on, and lookingat me with her own calm smile.

As I rode back in the lonely night, the wind going by me like arestless memory, I thought of this, and feared she was not happy. Iwas not happy; but, thus far, I had faithfully set the seal upon thePast, and, thinking of her, pointing upward, thought of her as point-ing to that sky above me, where, in the mystery to come, I might yetlove her with a love unknown on earth, and tell her what the strifehad been within me when I loved her here.

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CHAPTER 61I AM SHOWN TWO

INTERESTING PENITENTS

For a time—at all events until my book should be completed, whichwould be the work of several months—I took up my abode in myaunt’s house at Dover; and there, sitting in the window from whichI had looked out at the moon upon the sea, when that roof first gaveme shelter, I quietly pursued my task.

In pursuance of my intention of referring to my own fictions onlywhen their course should incidentally connect itself with the progressof my story, I do not enter on the aspirations, the delights, anxieties,and triumphs of my art. That I truly devoted myself to it with mystrongest earnestness, and bestowed upon it every energy of my soul,I have already said. If the books I have written be of any worth, theywill supply the rest. I shall otherwise have written to poor purpose,and the rest will be of interest to no one.

Occasionally, I went to London; to lose myself in the swarm oflife there, or to consult with Traddles on some business point. Hehad managed for me, in my absence, with the soundest judgement;and my worldly affairs were prospering. As my notoriety began tobring upon me an enormous quantity of letters from people of whomI had no knowledge—chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficultto answer—I agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up onhis door. There, the devoted postman on that beat delivered bushelsof letters for me; and there, at intervals, I laboured through them,like a Home Secretary of State without the salary.

Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every now and then,an obliging proposal from one of the numerous outsiders always

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lurking about the Commons, to practise under cover of my name (ifI would take the necessary steps remaining to make a proctor ofmyself ), and pay me a percentage on the profits. But I declined theseoffers; being already aware that there were plenty of such covert prac-titioners in existence, and considering the Commons quite badenough, without my doing anything to make it worse.

The girls had gone home, when my name burst into bloom onTraddles’s door; and the sharp boy looked, all day, as if he had neverheard of Sophy, shut up in a back room, glancing down from herwork into a sooty little strip of garden with a pump in it. But thereI always found her, the same bright housewife; often humming herDevonshire ballads when no strange foot was coming up the stairs,and blunting the sharp boy in his official closet with melody.

I wondered, at first, why I so often found Sophy writing in a copy-book; and why she always shut it up when I appeared, and hurried itinto the table-drawer. But the secret soon came out. One day, Traddles(who had just come home through the drizzling sleet from Court)took a paper out of his desk, and asked me what I thought of thathandwriting?

‘Oh, don’t, Tom!’ cried Sophy, who was warming his slippers be-fore the fire.

‘My dear,’ returned Tom, in a delighted state, ‘why not? What doyou say to that writing, Copperfield?’

‘It’s extraordinarily legal and formal,’ said I. ‘I don’t think I eversaw such a stiff hand.’

‘Not like a lady’s hand, is it?’ said Traddles.‘A lady’s!’ I repeated. ‘Bricks and mortar are more like a lady’s hand!’Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me that it

was Sophy’s writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he wouldneed a copying-clerk soon, and she would be that clerk; that she hadacquired this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off—Iforget how many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused bymy being told all this, and said that when ‘Tom’ was made a judge hewouldn’t be so ready to proclaim it. Which ‘Tom’ denied; averringthat he should always be equally proud of it, under all circumstances.

‘What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my dearTraddles!’ said I, when she had gone away, laughing.

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‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Traddles, ‘she is, without any ex-ception, the dearest girl! The way she manages this place; her punctu-ality, domestic knowledge, economy, and order; her cheerfulness,Copperfield!’

‘Indeed, you have reason to commend her!’ I returned. ‘You are ahappy fellow. I believe you make yourselves, and each other, two ofthe happiest people in the world.’

‘I am sure we are two of the happiest people,’ returned Traddles. ‘Iadmit that, at all events. Bless my soul, when I see her getting up bycandle-light on these dark mornings, busying herself in the day’s ar-rangements, going out to market before the clerks come into theInn, caring for no weather, devising the most capital little dinnersout of the plainest materials, making puddings and pies, keepingeverything in its right place, always so neat and ornamental herself,sitting up at night with me if it’s ever so late, sweet-tempered andencouraging always, and all for me, I positively sometimes can’t be-lieve it, Copperfield!’

He was tender of the very slippers she had been warming, as he putthem on, and stretched his feet enjoyingly upon the fender.

‘I positively sometimes can’t believe it,’ said Traddles. ‘Then ourpleasures! Dear me, they are inexpensive, but they are quite wonder-ful! When we are at home here, of an evening, and shut the outerdoor, and draw those curtains—which she made—where could webe more snug? When it’s fine, and we go out for a walk in the evening,the streets abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the glitteringwindows of the jewellers’ shops; and I show Sophy which of thediamond-eyed serpents, coiled up on white satin rising grounds, Iwould give her if I could afford it; and Sophy shows me which of thegold watches that are capped and jewelled and engine-turned, andpossessed of the horizontal lever—escape-movement, and all sorts ofthings, she would buy for me if she could afford it; and we pick outthe spoons and forks, fish-slices, butter-knives, and sugar-tongs, weshould both prefer if we could both afford it; and really we go awayas if we had got them! Then, when we stroll into the squares, andgreat streets, and see a house to let, sometimes we look up at it, andsay, how would that do, if I was made a judge? And we parcel itout—such a room for us, such rooms for the girls, and so forth;

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until we settle to our satisfaction that it would do, or it wouldn’t do,as the case may be. Sometimes, we go at half-price to the pit of thetheatre—the very smell of which is cheap, in my opinion, at themoney—and there we thoroughly enjoy the play: which Sophy be-lieves every word of, and so do I. In walking home, perhaps we buya little bit of something at a cook’s-shop, or a little lobster at thefishmongers, and bring it here, and make a splendid supper, chattingabout what we have seen. Now, you know, Copperfield, if I wasLord Chancellor, we couldn’t do this!’

‘You would do something, whatever you were, my dear Traddles,’thought I, ‘that would be pleasant and amiable. And by the way,’ Isaid aloud, ‘I suppose you never draw any skeletons now?’

‘Really,’ replied Traddles, laughing, and reddening, ‘I can’t whollydeny that I do, my dear Copperfield. For being in one of the backrows of the King’s Bench the other day, with a pen in my hand, thefancy came into my head to try how I had preserved that accom-plishment. And I am afraid there’s a skeleton—in a wig—on theledge of the desk.’

After we had both laughed heartily, Traddles wound up by look-ing with a smile at the fire, and saying, in his forgiving way, ‘OldCreakle!’

‘I have a letter from that old—Rascal here,’ said I. For I never wasless disposed to forgive him the way he used to batter Traddles, thanwhen I saw Traddles so ready to forgive him himself.

‘From Creakle the schoolmaster?’ exclaimed Traddles. ‘No!’‘Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising fame

and fortune,’ said I, looking over my letters, ‘and who discoverthat they were always much attached to me, is the self-same Creakle.He is not a schoolmaster now, Traddles. He is retired. He is aMiddlesex Magistrate.’

I thought Traddles might be surprised to hear it, but he was not soat all.

‘How do you suppose he comes to be a Middlesex Magistrate?’said I.

‘Oh dear me!’ replied Traddles, ‘it would be very difficult to answerthat question. Perhaps he voted for somebody, or lent money to some-body, or bought something of somebody, or otherwise obliged some-

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body, or jobbed for somebody, who knew somebody who got thelieutenant of the county to nominate him for the commission.’

‘On the commission he is, at any rate,’ said I. ‘And he writes to mehere, that he will be glad to show me, in operation, the only truesystem of prison discipline; the only unchallengeable way of makingsincere and lasting converts and penitents—which, you know, is bysolitary confinement. What do you say?’

‘To the system?’ inquired Traddles, looking grave.‘No. To my accepting the offer, and your going with me?’‘I don’t object,’ said Traddles.‘Then I’ll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing of our

treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of doors, I suppose,and the life he used to lead his wife and daughter?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Traddles.‘Yet, if you’ll read his letter, you’ll find he is the tenderest of men

to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felonies,’ said I;‘though I can’t find that his tenderness extends to any other class ofcreated beings.’

Traddles shrugged his shoulders, and was not at all surprised. I had notexpected him to be, and was not surprised myself; or my observation ofsimilar practical satires would have been but scanty. We arranged thetime of our visit, and I wrote accordingly to Mr. Creakle that evening.

On the appointed day—I think it was the next day, but no mat-ter—Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr. Creakle waspowerful. It was an immense and solid building, erected at a vastexpense. I could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, whatan uproar would have been made in the country, if any deluded manhad proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erec-tion of an industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge forthe deserving old.

In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of the Towerof Babel, it was so massively constructed, we were presented to ourold schoolmaster; who was one of a group, composed of two orthree of the busier sort of magistrates, and some visitors they hadbrought. He received me, like a man who had formed my mind inbygone years, and had always loved me tenderly. On my introducingTraddles, Mr. Creakle expressed, in like manner, but in an inferior

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degree, that he had always been Traddles’s guide, philosopher, andfriend. Our venerable instructor was a great deal older, and not im-proved in appearance. His face was as fiery as ever; his eyes were assmall, and rather deeper set. The scanty, wet-looking grey hair, bywhich I remembered him, was almost gone; and the thick veins inhis bald head were none the more agreeable to look at.

After some conversation among these gentlemen, from which Imight have supposed that there was nothing in the world to be le-gitimately taken into account but the supreme comfort of prisoners,at any expense, and nothing on the wide earth to be done outsideprison-doors, we began our inspection. It being then just dinner-time, we went, first into the great kitchen, where every prisoner’sdinner was in course of being set out separately (to be handed to himin his cell), with the regularity and precision of clock-work. I saidaside, to Traddles, that I wondered whether it occurred to anybody,that there was a striking contrast between these plentiful repasts ofchoice quality, and the dinners, not to say of paupers, but of soldiers,sailors, labourers, the great bulk of the honest, working community;of whom not one man in five hundred ever dined half so well. But Ilearned that the ‘system’ required high living; and, in short, to dis-pose of the system, once for all, I found that on that head and on allothers, ‘the system’ put an end to all doubts, and disposed of allanomalies. Nobody appeared to have the least idea that there was anyother system, but the system, to be considered.

As we were going through some of the magnificent passages, Iinquired of Mr. Creakle and his friends what were supposed to bethe main advantages of this all-governing and universally over-ridingsystem? I found them to be the perfect isolation of prisoners—sothat no one man in confinement there, knew anything about an-other; and the reduction of prisoners to a wholesome state of mind,leading to sincere contrition and repentance.

Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in theircells, and to traverse the passages in which those cells were, and tohave the manner of the going to chapel and so forth, explained to us,that there was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing a gooddeal about each other, and of their carrying on a pretty completesystem of intercourse. This, at the time I write, has been proved, I

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believe, to be the case; but, as it would have been flat blasphemyagainst the system to have hinted such a doubt then, I looked out forthe penitence as diligently as I could.

And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a fash-ion in the form of the penitence, as I had left outside in the forms ofthe coats and waistcoats in the windows of the tailors’ shops. I founda vast amount of profession, varying very little in character: varyingvery little (which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. Ifound a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards of inacces-sible grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I would have trustedwithin reach of a bunch. Above all, I found that the most professingmen were the greatest objects of interest; and that their conceit, theirvanity, their want of excitement, and their love of deception (whichmany of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as their his-tories showed), all prompted to these professions, and were all grati-fied by them.

However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our goings to andfro, of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who was the Favourite, andwho really appeared to be a Model Prisoner, that I resolved to sus-pend my judgement until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight,I understood, was also a bright particular star; but it was his misfor-tune to have his glory a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre ofTwenty Seven. I heard so much of Twenty Seven, of his pious admo-nitions to everybody around him, and of the beautiful letters he con-stantly wrote to his mother (whom he seemed to consider in a verybad way), that I became quite impatient to see him.

I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on account of TwentySeven being reserved for a concluding effect. But, at last, we came to thedoor of his cell; and Mr. Creakle, looking through a little hole in it, re-ported to us, in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was reading aHymn Book.

There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Number TwentySeven reading his Hymn Book, that the little hole was blocked up,six or seven heads deep. To remedy this inconvenience, and give us anopportunity of conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr.Creakle directed the door of the cell to be unlocked, and TwentySeven to be invited out into the passage. This was done; and whom

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should Traddles and I then behold, to our amazement, in this con-verted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep!

He knew us directly; and said, as he came out—with the oldwrithe,—

‘How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr. Traddles?’This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I rather

thought that everyone was struck by his not being proud, and takingnotice of us.

‘Well, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, mournfully admiring him. ‘Howdo you find yourself today?’

‘I am very umble, sir!’ replied Uriah Heep.‘You are always so, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle.Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety: ‘Are you

quite comfortable?’‘Yes, I thank you, sir!’ said Uriah Heep, looking in that direction.

‘Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside. I see my follies,now, sir. That’s what makes me comfortable.’

Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner, forc-ing himself to the front, inquired with extreme feeling: ‘How doyou find the beef?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Uriah, glancing in the new direction of thisvoice, ‘it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it’s my duty tobear. I have committed follies, gentlemen,’ said Uriah, looking roundwith a meek smile, ‘and I ought to bear the consequences without repin-ing.’ A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven’s celestial state ofmind, and partly of indignation against the Contractor who had givenhim any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately made byMr. Creakle), having subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of us, asif he felt himself the principal object of merit in a highly meritoriousmuseum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess of light shiningupon us all at once, orders were given to let out Twenty Eight.

I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a kind ofresigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, reading a good book!

‘Twenty Eight,’ said a gentleman in spectacles, who had not yetspoken, ‘you complained last week, my good fellow, of the cocoa.How has it been since?’

‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, ‘it has been better made. If I

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might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don’t think the milk whichis boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am aware, sir, that there is agreat adulteration of milk, in London, and that the article in a purestate is difficult to be obtained.’

It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed hisTwenty Eight against Mr. Creakle’s Twenty Seven, for each of themtook his own man in hand.

‘What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight?’ said the questioner inspectacles.

‘I thank you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer; ‘I see my follies now, sir.I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins of my formercompanions, sir; but I trust they may find forgiveness.’

‘You are quite happy yourself?’ said the questioner, nodding en-couragement.

‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer. ‘Perfectly so.’‘Is there anything at all on your mind now?’ said the questioner. ‘If

so, mention it, Twenty Eight.’‘Sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, ‘if my eyes have not

deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was acquainted withme in my former life. It may be profitable to that gentleman toknow, sir, that I attribute my past follies, entirely to having lived athoughtless life in the service of young men; and to having allowedmyself to be led by them into weaknesses, which I had not the strengthto resist. I hope that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not beoffended at my freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious of myown past follies. I hope he may repent of all the wickedness and sinto which he has been a party.’

I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes, each withone hand, as if they had just come into church.

‘This does you credit, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner. ‘Ishould have expected it of you. Is there anything else?’

‘Sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eyebrows, butnot his eyes, ‘there was a young woman who fell into dissolute courses,that I endeavoured to save, sir, but could not rescue. I beg that gentle-man, if he has it in his power, to inform that young woman from methat I forgive her her bad conduct towards myself, and that I call herto repentance—if he will be so good.’

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‘I have no doubt, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner, ‘that thegentleman you refer to feels very strongly—as we all must—whatyou have so properly said. We will not detain you.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer. ‘Gentlemen, I wish you agood day, and hoping you and your families will also see your wick-edness, and amend!’

With this, Number Twenty Eight retired, after a glance betweenhim and Uriah; as if they were not altogether unknown to each other,through some medium of communication; and a murmur wentround the group, as his door shut upon him, that he was a mostrespectable man, and a beautiful case.

‘Now, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, entering on a clear stagewith his man, ‘is there anything that anyone can do for you? If so,mention it.’

‘I would umbly ask, sir,’ returned Uriah, with a jerk of his malevo-lent head, ‘for leave to write again to mother.’

‘It shall certainly be granted,’ said Mr. Creakle.‘Thank you, sir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid she ain’t safe.’Somebody incautiously asked, what from? But there was a scan-

dalized whisper of ‘Hush!’‘Immortally safe, sir,’ returned Uriah, writhing in the direction of

the voice. ‘I should wish mother to be got into my state. I nevershould have been got into my present state if I hadn’t come here. Iwish mother had come here. It would be better for everybody, ifthey got took up, and was brought here.’

This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction—greater satisfaction,I think, than anything that had passed yet.

‘Before I come here,’ said Uriah, stealing a look at us, as if hewould have blighted the outer world to which we belonged, if hecould, ‘I was given to follies; but now I am sensible of my follies.There’s a deal of sin outside. There’s a deal of sin in mother. There’snothing but sin everywhere—except here.’

‘You are quite changed?’ said Mr. Creakle.‘Oh dear, yes, sir!’ cried this hopeful penitent.‘You wouldn’t relapse, if you were going out?’ asked somebody else.‘Oh de-ar no, sir!’‘Well!’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘this is very gratifying. You have addressed

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Mr. Copperfield, Twenty Seven. Do you wish to say anything fur-ther to him?’

‘You knew me, a long time before I came here and was changed,Mr. Copperfield,’ said Uriah, looking at me; and a more villainouslook I never saw, even on his visage. ‘You knew me when, in spite ofmy follies, I was umble among them that was proud, and meekamong them that was violent—you was violent to me yourself, Mr.Copperfield. Once, you struck me a blow in the face, you know.’

General commiseration. Several indignant glances directed at me.‘But I forgive you, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Uriah, making his for-

giving nature the subject of a most impious and awful parallel, whichI shall not record. ‘I forgive everybody. It would ill become me tobear malice. I freely forgive you, and I hope you’ll curb your passionsin future. I hope Mr. W. will repent, and Miss W., and all of thatsinful lot. You’ve been visited with affliction, and I hope it may doyou good; but you’d better havecome here. Mr. W. had better have come here, and Miss W. too. Thebest wish I could give you, Mr. Copperfield, and give all of yougentlemen, is, that you could be took up and brought here. When Ithink of my past follies, and my present state, I am sure it would bebest for you. I pity all who ain’t brought here!’

He sneaked back into his cell, amidst a little chorus of approba-tion; and both Traddles and I experienced a great relief when he waslocked in.

It was a characteristic feature in this repentance, that I was fain toask what these two men had done, to be there at all. That appearedto be the last thing about which they had anything to say. I addressedmyself to one of the two warders, who, I suspected from certainlatent indications in their faces, knew pretty well what all this stirwas worth.

‘Do you know,’ said I, as we walked along the passage, ‘what felonywas Number Twenty Seven’s last “folly”?’

The answer was that it was a Bank case.‘A fraud on the Bank of England?’ I asked.‘Yes, sir. Fraud, forgery, and conspiracy. He and some others. He

set the others on. It was a deep plot for a large sum. Sentence, trans-portation for life. Twenty Seven was the knowingest

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bird of the lot, and had very nearly kept himself safe; but not quite.The Bank was just able to put salt upon his tail—and only just.’

‘Do you know Twenty Eight’s offence?’‘Twenty Eight,’ returned my informant, speaking throughout in a

low tone, and looking over his shoulder as we walked along the pas-sage, to guard himself from being overheard, in such an unlawfulreference to these Immaculates, by Creakle and the rest; ‘TwentyEight (also transportation) got a place, and robbed a young master ofa matter of two hundred and fifty pounds in money and valuables,the night before they were going abroad. I particularly recollect hiscase, from his being took by a dwarf.’

‘A what?’‘A little woman. I have forgot her name?’‘Not Mowcher?’‘That’s it! He had eluded pursuit, and was going to America in a

flaxen wig, and whiskers, and such a complete disguise as never yousee in all your born days; when the little woman, being inSouthampton, met him walking along the street—picked him outwith her sharp eye in a moment—ran betwixt his legs to upset him—and held on to him like grim Death.’

‘Excellent Miss Mowcher!’ cried I.‘You’d have said so, if you had seen her, standing on a chair in the

witness-box at the trial, as I did,’ said my friend. ‘He cut her faceright open, and pounded her in the most brutal manner, when shetook him; but she never loosed her hold till he was locked up. Sheheld so tight to him, in fact, that the officers were obliged to take‘em both together. She gave her evidence in the gamest way, and washighly complimented by the Bench, and cheered right home to herlodgings. She said in Court that she’d have took him single-handed(on account of what she knew concerning him), if he had been Samson.And it’s my belief she would!’

It was mine too, and I highly respected Miss Mowcher for it.We had now seen all there was to see. It would have been in vain to

represent to such a man as the Worshipful Mr. Creakle, that TwentySeven and Twenty Eight were perfectly consistent and unchanged;that exactly what they were then, they had always been; that thehypocritical knaves were just the subjects to make that

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sort of profession in such a place; that they knew its market-value atleast as well as we did, in the immediate service it would do themwhen they were expatriated; in a word, that it was a rotten, hollow,painfully suggestive piece of business altogether. We left them totheir system and themselves, and went home wondering.

‘Perhaps it’s a good thing, Traddles,’ said I, ‘to have an unsoundHobby ridden hard; for it’s the sooner ridden to death.’

‘I hope so,’ replied Traddles.

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CHAPTER 62A LIGHT SHINES ON MY

WAY

The year came round to Christmas-time, and I had been at homeabove two months. I had seen Agnes frequently. However loud thegeneral voice might be in giving me encouragement, and howeverfervent the emotions and endeavours to which it roused me, I heardher lightest word of praise as I heard nothing else.

At least once a week, and sometimes oftener, I rode over there, andpassed the evening. I usually rode back at night; for the old unhappysense was always hovering about me now—most sorrowfully when Ileft her—and I was glad to be up and out, rather than wanderingover the past in weary wakefulness or miserable dreams. I wore awaythe longest part of many wild sad nights, in those rides; reviving, as Iwent, the thoughts that had occupied me in my long absence.

Or, if I were to say rather that I listened to the echoes of thosethoughts, I should better express the truth. They spoke to me fromafar off. I had put them at a distance, and accepted my inevitableplace. When I read to Agnes what I wrote; when I saw her listeningface; moved her to smiles or tears; and heard her cordial voice soearnest on the shadowy events of that imaginative world in which Ilived; I thought what a fate mine might have been—but only thoughtso, as I had thought after I was married to Dora, what I could havewished my wife to be.

My duty to Agnes, who loved me with a love, which, if I disqui-eted, I wronged most selfishly and poorly, and could never restore;my matured assurance that I, who had worked out my own destiny,and won what I had impetuously set my heart on, had no right to

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murmur, and must bear; comprised what I felt and what I had learned.But I loved her: and now it even became some consolation to me,vaguely to conceive a distant day when I might blamelessly avow it;when all this should be over; when I could say ‘Agnes, so it was whenI came home; and now I am old, and I never have loved since!’

She did not once show me any change in herself. What she alwayshad been to me, she still was; wholly unaltered.

Between my aunt and me there had been something, in thisconnexion, since the night of my return, which I cannot call a re-straint, or an avoidance of the subject, so much as an implied under-standing that we thought of it together, but did not shape our thoughtsinto words. When, according to our old custom, we sat before thefire at night, we often fell into this train; as naturally, and as con-sciously to each other, as if we had unreservedly said so. But we pre-served an unbroken silence. I believed that she had read, or partlyread, my thoughts that night; and that she fully comprehended whyI gave mine no more distinct expression.

This Christmas-time being come, and Agnes having reposed nonew confidence in me, a doubt that had several times arisen in mymind—whether she could have that perception of the true state ofmy breast, which restrained her with the apprehension of giving mepain—began to oppress me heavily. If that were so, my sacrifice wasnothing; my plainest obligation to her unfulfilled; and every pooraction I had shrunk from, I was hourly doing. I resolved to set thisright beyond all doubt;—if such a barrier were between us, to breakit down at once with a determined hand.

It was—what lasting reason have I to remember it!—a cold, harsh,winter day. There had been snow, some hours before; and it lay, notdeep, but hard-frozen on the ground. Out at sea, beyond my win-dow, the wind blew ruggedly from the north. I had been thinking ofit, sweeping over those mountain wastes of snow in Switzerland,then inaccessible to any human foot; and had been speculating whichwas the lonelier, those solitary regions, or a deserted ocean.

‘Riding today, Trot?’ said my aunt, putting her head in at the door.‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am going over to Canterbury. It’s a good day for a ride.’‘I hope your horse may think so too,’ said my aunt; ‘but at present

he is holding down his head and his ears, standing before the door

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there, as if he thought his stable preferable.’My aunt, I may observe, allowed my horse on the forbidden

ground, but had not at all relented towards the donkeys.‘He will be fresh enough, presently!’ said I.‘The ride will do his master good, at all events,’ observed my aunt,

glancing at the papers on my table. ‘Ah, child, you pass a good manyhours here! I never thought, when I used to read books,what work it was to write them.’

‘It’s work enough to read them, sometimes,’ I returned. ‘As to thewriting, it has its own charms, aunt.’

‘Ah! I see!’ said my aunt. ‘Ambition, love of approbation, sympa-thy, and much more, I suppose? Well: go along with you!’

‘Do you know anything more,’ said I, standing composedly be-fore her—she had patted me on the shoulder, and sat down in mychair—’ofthat attachment of Agnes?’

She looked up in my face a little while, before replying:‘I think I do, Trot.’‘Are you confirmed in your impression?’ I inquired.‘I think I am, Trot.’She looked so steadfastly at me: with a kind of doubt, or pity, or

suspense in her affection: that I summoned the stronger determina-tion to show her a perfectly cheerful face.

‘And what is more, Trot -’ said my aunt.‘Yes!’‘I think Agnes is going to be married.’‘God bless her!’ said I, cheerfully.‘God bless her!’ said my aunt, ‘and her husband too!’I echoed it, parted from my aunt, and went lightly downstairs,

mounted, and rode away. There was greater reason than before to dowhat I had resolved to do.

How well I recollect the wintry ride! The frozen particles of ice,brushed from the blades of grass by the wind, and borne across myface; the hard clatter of the horse’s hoofs, beating a tune upon theground; the stiff-tilled soil; the snowdrift, lightly eddying in the chalk-pit as the breeze ruffled it; the smoking team with the waggon of oldhay, stopping to breathe on the hill-top, and shaking their bells mu-

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sically; the whitened slopes and sweeps of Down-land lying againstthe dark sky, as if they were drawn on a huge slate!

I found Agnes alone. The little girls had gone to their own homesnow, and she was alone by the fire, reading. She put down her bookon seeing me come in; and having welcomed me as usual, took herwork-basket and sat in one of the old-fashioned windows.

I sat beside her on the window-seat, and we talked of what I wasdoing, and when it would be done, and of the progress I had madesince my last visit. Agnes was very cheerful; and laughingly predictedthat I should soon become too famous to be talked to, on suchsubjects.

‘So I make the most of the present time, you see,’ said Agnes, ‘andtalk to you while I may.’

As I looked at her beautiful face, observant of her work, she raisedher mild clear eyes, and saw that I was looking at her.

‘You are thoughtful today, Trotwood!’‘Agnes, shall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.’She put aside her work, as she was used to do when we were seri-

ously discussing anything; and gave me her whole attention.‘My dear Agnes, do you doubt my being true to you?’‘No!’ she answered, with a look of astonishment.‘Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you?’‘No!’ she answered, as before.‘Do you remember that I tried to tell you, when I came home,

what a debt of gratitude I owed you, dearest Agnes, and how fer-vently I felt towards you?’

‘I remember it,’ she said, gently, ‘very well.’‘You have a secret,’ said I. ‘Let me share it, Agnes.’She cast down her eyes, and trembled.‘I could hardly fail to know, even if I had not heard—but from other

lips than yours, Agnes, which seems strange—that there is someone uponwhom you have bestowed the treasure of your love. Do not shut me outof what concerns your happiness so nearly! If you can trust me, as you sayyou can, and as I know you may, let me be your friend, your brother, inthis matter, of all others!’

With an appealing, almost a reproachful, glance, she rose from thewindow; and hurrying across the room as if without knowing where,

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put her hands before her face, and burst into such tears as smote meto the heart.

And yet they awakened something in me, bringing promise to myheart. Without my knowing why, these tears allied themselves withthe quietly sad smile which was so fixed in my remembrance, andshook me more with hope than fear or sorrow.

‘Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?’‘Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not myself. I will

speak to you by and by—another time. I will write to you. Don’tspeak to me now. Don’t! don’t!’

I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spoken to her onthat former night, of her affection needing no return. It seemed a veryworld that I must search through in a moment. ‘Agnes, I cannot bearto see you so, and think that I have been the cause. My dearest girl,dearer to me than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me shareyour unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try togive it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart, let me try tolighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it is not for you!’

‘Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!’ was all I coulddistinguish.

Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Or, having once aclue to hope, was there something opening to me that I had notdared to think of?

‘I must say more. I cannot let you leave me so! For Heaven’s sake,Agnes, let us not mistake each other after all these years, and all that hascome and gone with them! I must speak plainly. If you have any lin-gering thought that I could envy the happiness you will confer; that Icould not resign you to a dearer protector, of your own choosing; thatI could not, from my removed place, be a contented witness of yourjoy; dismiss it, for I don’t deserve it! I have not suffered quite in vain.You have not taught me quite in vain. There is no alloy of self in whatI feel for you.’

She was quiet now. In a little time, she turned her pale face towardsme, and said in a low voice, broken here and there, but very clear:

‘I owe it to your pure friendship for me, Trotwood—which, in-deed, I do not doubt—to tell you, you are mistaken. I can do nomore. If I have sometimes, in the course of years, wanted help and

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counsel, they have come to me. If I have sometimes been unhappy,the feeling has passed away. If I have ever had a burden on myheart, it has been lightened for me. If I have any secret, it is—no newone; and is—not what you suppose. I cannot reveal it, or divide it. Ithas long been mine, and must remain mine.’

‘Agnes! Stay! A moment!’She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my arm about

her waist. ‘In the course of years!’ ‘It is not a new one!’ New thoughtsand hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the colours ofmy life were changing.

‘Dearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour—whom I so de-votedly love! When I came here today, I thought that nothing couldhave wrested this confession from me. I thought I could have kept itin my bosom all our lives, till we were old. But, Agnes, if I haveindeed any new-born hope that I may ever call you something morethan Sister, widely different from Sister!—’

Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately shed,and I saw my hope brighten in them.

‘Agnes! Ever my guide, and best support! If you had been moremindful of yourself, and less of me, when we grew up here together,I think my heedless fancy never would have wandered from you. Butyou were so much better than I, so necessary to me in every boyishhope and disappointment, that to have you to confide in, and relyupon in everything, became a second nature, supplanting for the timethe first and greater one of loving you as I do!’

Still weeping, but not sadly—joyfully! And clasped in my arms asshe had never been, as I had thought she never was to be!

‘When I loved Dora—fondly, Agnes, as you know—’‘Yes!’ she cried, earnestly. ‘I am glad to know it!’‘When I loved her—even then, my love would have been incom-

plete, without your sympathy. I had it, and it was perfected. Andwhen I lost her, Agnes, what should I have been without you, still!’

Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling hand uponmy shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her tears, on mine!

‘I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. Ireturned home, loving you!’

And now, I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and the

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conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her, truly,and entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped I had come into thebetter knowledge of myself and of her; how I had resigned myself towhat that better knowledge brought; and how I had come there,even that day, in my fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) thatshe could take me for her husband, she could do so, on no deservingof mine, except upon the truth of my love for her, and the trouble inwhich it had ripened to be what it was; and hence it was that I re-vealed it. And O, Agnes, even out of thy true eyes, in that same time,the spirit of my child-wife looked upon me, saying it was well; andwinning me, through thee, to tenderest recollections of the Blossomthat had withered in its bloom!

‘I am so blest, Trotwood—my heart is so overcharged—but thereis one thing I must say.’

‘Dearest, what?’She laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders, and looked calmly

in my face.‘Do you know, yet, what it is?’‘I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.’‘I have loved you all my life!’O, we were happy, we were happy! Our tears were not for the

trials (hers so much the greater) through which we had come to bethus, but for the rapture of being thus, never to be divided more!

We walked, that winter evening, in the fields together; and the blessedcalm within us seemed to be partaken by the frosty air. The early starsbegan to shine while we were lingering on, and looking up to them,we thanked our God for having guided us to this tranquillity.

We stood together in the same old-fashioned window at night,when the moon was shining; Agnes with her quiet eyes raised up toit; I following her glance. Long miles of road then opened out beforemy mind; and, toiling on, I saw a ragged way-worn boy, forsakenand neglected, who should come to call even the heart now beatingagainst mine, his own.

IT WAS NEARLY DINNER-TIME next day when we appeared before myaunt. She was up in my study, Peggotty said: which it was her prideto keep in readiness and order for me. We found her, in her spec-tacles, sitting by the fire.

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‘Goodness me!’ said my aunt, peering through the dusk, ‘who’sthis you’re bringing home?’

‘Agnes,’ said I.As we had arranged to say nothing at first, my aunt was not a little

discomfited. She darted a hopeful glance at me, when I said ‘Agnes’;but seeing that I looked as usual, she took off her spectacles in de-spair, and rubbed her nose with them.

She greeted Agnes heartily, nevertheless; and we were soon in thelighted parlour downstairs, at dinner. My aunt put on her spectaclestwice or thrice, to take another look at me, but as often took themoff again, disappointed, and rubbed her nose with them. Much tothe discomfiture of Mr. Dick, who knew this to be a bad symptom.

‘By the by, aunt,’ said I, after dinner; ‘I have been speaking to Agnesabout what you told me.’

‘Then, Trot,’ said my aunt, turning scarlet, ‘you did wrong, andbroke your promise.’

‘You are not angry, aunt, I trust? I am sure you won’t be, when youlearn that Agnes is not unhappy in any attachment.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said my aunt.As my aunt appeared to be annoyed, I thought the best way was to

cut her annoyance short. I took Agnes in my arm to the back of herchair, and we both leaned over her. My aunt, with one clap of herhands, and one look through her spectacles, immediately went intohysterics, for the first and only time in all my knowledge of her.

The hysterics called up Peggotty. The moment my aunt was re-stored, she flew at Peggotty, and calling her a silly old creature, huggedher with all her might. After that, she hugged Mr. Dick (who washighly honoured, but a good deal surprised); and after that, toldthem why. Then, we were all happy together.

I could not discover whether my aunt, in her last short conversa-tion with me, had fallen on a pious fraud, or had really mistaken thestate of my mind. It was quite enough, she said, that she had told meAgnes was going to be married; and that I now knew better thananyone how true it was.

WE WERE MARRIED WITHIN A FORTNIGHT. Traddles and Sophy, andDoctor and Mrs. Strong, were the only guests at our quiet wedding.

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We left them full of joy; and drove away together. Clasped in myembrace, I held the source of every worthy aspiration I had ever had;the centre of myself, the circle of my life, my own, my wife; my loveof whom was founded on a rock!

‘Dearest husband!’ said Agnes. ‘Now that I may call you by that name, I haveone thing more to tell you.’

‘Let me hear it, love.’‘It grows out of the night when Dora died. She sent you for me.’‘She did.’‘She told me that she left me something. Can you think what it was?’I believed I could. I drew the wife who had so long loved me,

closer to my side.‘She told me that she made a last request to me, and left me a last

charge.’‘And it was—’‘That only I would occupy this vacant place.’And Agnes laid her head upon my breast, and wept; and I wept

with her, though we were so happy.

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CHAPTER 63A VISITOR

What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet anincident conspicuous in my memory, on which it often rests withdelight, and without which one thread in the web I have spun wouldhave a ravelled end.

I had advanced in fame and fortune, my domestic joy was perfect,I had been married ten happy years. Agnes and I were sitting by thefire, in our house in London, one night in spring, and three of ourchildren were playing in the room, when I was told that a strangerwished to see me.

He had been asked if he came on business, and had answered No;he had come for the pleasure of seeing me, and had come a long way.He was an old man, my servant said, and looked like a farmer.

As this sounded mysterious to the children, and moreover was likethe beginning of a favourite story Agnes used to tell them, introduc-tory to the arrival of a wicked old Fairy in a cloak who hated every-body, it produced some commotion. One of our boys laid his headin his mother’s lap to be out of harm’s way, and little Agnes (oureldest child) left her doll in a chair to represent her, and thrust out herlittle heap of golden curls from between the window-curtains, to seewhat happened next.

‘Let him come in here!’ said I.There soon appeared, pausing in the dark doorway as he entered, a

hale, grey-haired old man. Little Agnes, attracted by his looks, hadrun to bring him in, and I had not yet clearly seen his face, when mywife, starting up, cried out to me, in a pleased and agitated voice,that it was Mr. Peggotty!

It was Mr. Peggotty. An old man now, but in a ruddy, hearty,

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strong old age. When our first emotion was over, and he sat beforethe fire with the children on his knees, and the blaze shining on hisface, he looked, to me, as vigorous and robust, withal as handsome,an old man, as ever I had seen.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ said he. And the old name in the old tone fell sonaturally on my ear! ‘Mas’r Davy, ’tis a joyful hour as I see you, oncemore, ‘long with your own trew wife!’

‘A joyful hour indeed, old friend!’ cried I.‘And these heer pretty ones,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘To look at these

heer flowers! Why, Mas’r Davy, you was but the heighth of the littlestof these, when I first see you! When Em’ly warn’t no bigger, and ourpoor lad were but a lad!’

‘Time has changed me more than it has changed you since then,’said I. ‘But let these dear rogues go to bed; and as no house in En-gland but this must hold you, tell me where to send for your luggage(is the old black bag among it, that went so far, I wonder!), and then,over a glass of Yarmouth grog, we will have thetidings of ten years!’

‘Are you alone?’ asked Agnes.‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, kissing her hand, ‘quite alone.’We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him welcome

enough; and as I began to listen to his old familiar voice, I couldhave fancied he was still pursuing his long journey in search of hisdarling niece.

‘It’s a mort of water,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘fur to come across, andon’y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water (‘specially when ’tis salt)comes nat’ral to me; and friends is dear, and I am heer.—Which isverse,’ said Mr. Peggotty, surprised to find it out, ‘though I hadn’tsuch intentions.’

‘Are you going back those many thousand miles, so soon?’ askedAgnes.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he returned. ‘I giv the promise to Em’ly, afore I comeaway. You see, I doen’t grow younger as the years comes round, and ifI hadn’t sailed as ’twas, most like I shouldn’t never have done ‘t. Andit’s allus been on my mind, as I must come and see Mas’r Davy andyour own sweet blooming self, in your wedded happiness, afore Igot to be too old.’

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He looked at us, as if he could never feast his eyes on us suffi-ciently. Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks of his greyhair, that he might see us better.

‘And now tell us,’ said I, ‘everything relating to your fortunes.’‘Our fortuns, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined, ‘is soon told. We haven’t

fared nohows, but fared to thrive. We’ve allus thrived. We’ve workedas we ought to ‘t, and maybe we lived a leetle hard at first or so, butwe have allus thrived. What with sheep-farming, and what with stock-farming, and what with one thing and what with t’other, we are aswell to do, as well could be. Theer’s been kiender a blessing fell uponus,’ said Mr. Peggotty, reverentially inclining his head, ‘and we’vedone nowt but prosper. That is, in the long run. If not yesterday,why then today. If not today, why then tomorrow.’

‘And Emily?’ said Agnes and I, both together.‘Em’ly,’ said he, ‘arter you left her, ma’am—and I never heerd her

saying of her prayers at night, t’other side the canvas screen, when wewas settled in the Bush, but what I heerd your name—and arter sheand me lost sight of Mas’r Davy, that theer shining sundown—wasthat low, at first, that, if she had know’d then what Mas’r Davy kepfrom us so kind and thowtful, ’tis my opinion she’d have droopedaway. But theer was some poor folks aboard as had illness among‘em, and she took care of them; and theer was the children in ourcompany, and she took care of them; and so she got to be busy, andto be doing good, and that helped her.’

‘When did she first hear of it?’ I asked.‘I kep it from her arter I heerd on ‘t,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘going on

nigh a year. We was living then in a solitary place, but among thebeautifullest trees, and with the roses a-covering our Beein to theroof. Theer come along one day, when I was out a-working on theland, a traveller from our own Norfolk or Suffolk in England (Idoen’t rightly mind which), and of course we took him in, and givehim to eat and drink, and made him welcome. We all do that, all thecolony over. He’d got an old newspaper with him, and some otheraccount in print of the storm. That’s how she know’d it. When Icame home at night, I found she know’d it.’

He dropped his voice as he said these words, and the gravity I sowell remembered overspread his face.

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‘Did it change her much?’ we asked.‘Aye, for a good long time,’ he said, shaking his head; ‘if not to this

present hour. But I think the solitoode done her good. And she hada deal to mind in the way of poultry and the like, andminded of it, and come through. I wonder,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘ifyou could see my Em’ly now, Mas’r Davy, whether you’d know her!’

‘Is she so altered?’ I inquired.‘I doen’t know. I see her ev’ry day, and doen’t know; But, odd-

times, I have thowt so. A slight figure,’ said Mr. Peggotty, looking atthe fire, ‘kiender worn; soft, sorrowful, blue eyes; a delicate face; apritty head, leaning a little down; a quiet voice and way—timid a’most.That’s Em’ly!’

We silently observed him as he sat, still looking at the fire.‘Some thinks,’ he said, ‘as her affection was ill-bestowed; some, as

her marriage was broken off by death. No one knows how ’tis. Shemight have married well, a mort of times, “but, uncle,” she says tome, “that’s gone for ever.” Cheerful along with me; retired whenothers is by; fond of going any distance fur to teach a child, or fur totend a sick person, or fur to do some kindness tow’rds a young girl’swedding (and she’s done a many, but has never seen one); fondlyloving of her uncle; patient; liked by young and old; sowt out by allthat has any trouble. That’s Em’ly!’

He drew his hand across his face, and with a half-suppressed sighlooked up from the fire.

‘Is Martha with you yet?’ I asked.‘Martha,’ he replied, ‘got married, Mas’r Davy, in the second year.

A young man, a farm-labourer, as come by us on his way to marketwith his mas’r’s drays—a journey of over five hundred mile, theerand back—made offers fur to take her fur his wife (wives is veryscarce theer), and then to set up fur their two selves in the Bush. Shespoke to me fur to tell him her trew story. I did. They was married,and they live fower hundred mile away from any voices but theirown and the singing birds.’

‘Mrs. Gummidge?’ I suggested.It was a pleasant key to touch, for Mr. Peggotty suddenly burst

into a roar of laughter, and rubbed his hands up and down his legs, ashe had been accustomed to do when he enjoyed himself in the long-shipwrecked boat.

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‘Would you believe it!’ he said. ‘Why, someun even made offer furto marry her! If a ship’s cook that was turning settler, Mas’r Davy,didn’t make offers fur to marry Missis Gummidge, I’m Gormed—and I can’t say no fairer than that!’

I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstasy on the part of Mr.Peggotty was so delightful to her, that she could not leave off laughing;and the more she laughed the more she made me laugh, and the greaterMr. Peggotty’s ecstasy became, and the more he rubbed his legs.

‘And what did Mrs. Gummidge say?’ I asked, when I was graveenough.

‘If you’ll believe me,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘Missis Gummidge,‘stead of saying “thank you, I’m much obleeged to you, I ain’t a-going fur to change my condition at my time of life,” up’d with abucket as was standing by, and laid it over that theer ship’s cook’shead ‘till he sung out fur help, and I went in and reskied of him.’

Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter, and Agnes and Iboth kept him company.

‘But I must say this, for the good creetur,’ he resumed, wiping hisface, when we were quite exhausted; ‘she has been all she said she’d beto us, and more. She’s the willingest, the trewest, the honestest-helpingwoman, Mas’r Davy, as ever draw’d the breath of life. I have neverknow’d her to be lone and lorn, for a single minute, not even when thecolony was all afore us, and we was new to it. And thinking of the old‘un is a thing she never done, I do assure you, since she left England!’

‘Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,’ said I. ‘He has paid off everyobligation he incurred here—even to Traddles’s bill, you remembermy dear Agnes—and therefore we may take it for granted that he isdoing well. But what is the latest news of him?’

Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast-pocket, andproduced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which he took out, withmuch care, a little odd-looking newspaper.

‘You are to understan’, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, ‘as we have left theBush now, being so well to do; and have gone right away round toPort Middlebay Harbour, wheer theer’s what we call a town.’

‘Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you?’ said I.‘Bless you, yes,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and turned to with a will. I never

wish to meet a better gen’l’man for turning to with a will. I’ve seen that

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theer bald head of his a perspiring in the sun, Mas’r Davy, till I a’mostthowt it would have melted away. And now he’s a Magistrate.’

‘A Magistrate, eh?’ said I.Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the newspaper, where

I read aloud as follows, from the Port Middlebay Times:‘The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist and towns-

man, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Port Middlebay District Magistrate,came off yesterday in the large room of the Hotel, which was crowdedto suffocation. It is estimated that not fewer than forty-seven per-sons must have been accommodated with dinner at one time, exclu-sive of the company in the passage and on the stairs. The beauty,fashion, and exclusiveness of Port Middlebay, flocked to do honourto one so deservedly esteemed, so highlytalented, and so widely popular. Doctor Mell (of Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided, and on his rightsat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the cloth, and thesinging of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which we wereat no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted amateur,Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior), the usual loyal and patriotic toastswere severally given and rapturously received. Doctor Mell, in a speechreplete with feeling, then proposed “Our distinguished Guest, theornament of our town. May he never leave us but to better himself,and may his success among us be such as to render his bettering him-self impossible!” The cheering with which the toast was received de-fies description. Again and again it rose and fell, like the waves ofocean. At length all was hushed, and Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, pre-sented himself to return thanks. Far be it from us, in the presentcomparatively imperfect state of the resources of our establishment,to endeavour to follow our distinguished townsman through thesmoothly-flowing periods of his polished and highly-ornate address!Suffice it to observe, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and thatthose passages in which he more particularly traced his own success-ful career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his audi-tory from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which theywere unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present.The remaining toasts were Doctor Mell; Mrs. Micawber (who grace-fully bowed her acknowledgements from the side-door, where a gal-

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axy of beauty was elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn thegratifying scene), Mrs. Ridger Begs (late Miss Micawber); Mrs. Mell;Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior (who convulsed the assembly byhumorously remarking that he found himself unable to return thanksin a speech, but would do so, with their permission, in a song); Mrs.Micawber’s family (well known, it is needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the conclusion of the proceedings the tableswere cleared as if by art-magic for dancing. Among the votaries ofTerpsichore, who disported themselves until Sol gave warning for de-parture, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior, and the lovely and ac-complished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor Mell, were par-ticularly remarkable.’

I WAS LOOKING BACK to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to havediscovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell, formerly poorpinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when Mr. Peggotty point-ing to another part of the paper, my eyes rested on my own name,and I read thus:

‘TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE,

‘THE EMINENT AUTHOR.

‘My Dear Sir,

‘Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly perusingthe lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of a considerableportion of the civilized world.

‘But, my dear Sir, though estranged (by the force of circumstancesover which I have had no control) from the personal society of thefriend and companion of my youth, I have not been unmindful ofhis soaring flight. Nor have I been debarred,

Though seas between us braid ha’ roared,

(BURNS) from participating in the intellectual feasts he has spreadbefore us.

‘I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of an

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individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, my dearSir, taking this public opportunity of thanking you, on my ownbehalf, and, I may undertake to add, on that of the whole of theInhabitants of Port Middlebay, for the gratification of which you arethe ministering agent.

‘Go on, my dear Sir! You are not unknown here, you are not unap-preciated. Though “remote”, we are neither “unfriended”, “melancholy”,nor (I may add) “slow”. Go on, my dear Sir, in your Eagle course! Theinhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch it, withdelight, with entertainment, with instruction!

‘Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of theglobe, will ever be found, while it has light and life,

‘The ‘Eye ‘Appertaining to

‘WILKINS MICAWBER, ‘Magistrate.’

I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of the newspaper,that Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed correspondent ofthat journal. There was another letter from him in the same paper,touching a bridge; there was an advertisement of a collection of simi-lar letters by him, to be shortly republished, in a neat volume, ‘withconsiderable additions’; and, unless I am very much mistaken, theLeading Article was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other evenings whileMr. Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us during the wholeterm of his stay,—which, I think, was something less than amonth,—and his sister and my aunt came to London to see him.Agnes and I parted from him aboard-ship, when he sailed; and weshall never part from him more, on earth.

But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to see a littletablet I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of Ham. WhileI was copying the plain inscription for him at his request, I saw himstoop, and gather a tuft of grass from the grave and a little earth.

‘For Em’ly,’ he said, as he put it in his breast. ‘I promised, Mas’rDavy.’

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CHAPTER 64A LAST RETROSPECT

AND NOW MY WRITTEN STORY ENDS. I look back, once more—for thelast time—before I close these leaves.

I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road oflife. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar ofmany voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.

What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo,these; all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question!

Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of sixmiles at a stretch in winter weather.

Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise inspectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the lamp,but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a yard-measurein a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St. Paul’s upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childishdays, when I wondered why the birds didn’t peck her in preference toapples, are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken theirwhole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitterstill); but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocketnutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catch-ing at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlourat home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt’s old disappointmentis set right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood;and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her.

There is something bulky in Peggotty’s pocket. It is nothing smallerthan the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated conditionby this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but

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which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find itvery curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from theCrocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintanceBrooks of Sheffield.

Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old manmaking giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight forwhich there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers,with many nods and winks, ‘Trotwood, you will be glad to hear thatI shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and thatyour aunt’s the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!’

Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showingme a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride andbeauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wan-dering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp,dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hearwhat they say.

‘Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.’Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, ‘Mr. Copperfield.’‘I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourn-

ing. I hope Time will be good to you.’Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourn-

ing, bids her look again, tries to rouse her.‘You have seen my son, sir,’ says the elder lady. ‘Are you reconciled?’Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and

moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, ‘Rosa, come to me.He is dead!’ Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her,and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her, ‘I loved him betterthan you ever did!’—now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like asick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they weartheir time away, from year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English ladyis this, married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps ofears? Can this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carrycards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-colouredwoman in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serveher Tiffin in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these

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days; never sings Affection’s Dirge; eternally quarrels with the oldScotch Croesus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Juliais steeped in money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothingelse. I liked her better in the Desert of Sahara.

Or perhaps this is the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has astately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners everyday, I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come tofruit or flower. What Julia calls ‘society’, I see; among it Mr. JackMaldon, from his Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him,and speaking to me of the Doctor as ‘so charmingly antique’. Butwhen society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia,and when its breeding is professed indifference to everything that canadvance or can retard mankind, I think we must have lost ourselvesin that same Desert of Sahara, and had better find the way out.

And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dic-tionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home andwife. Also the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, andby no means so influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, andhis hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by theconstant friction of his lawyer’s-wig, I come, in a later time, uponmy dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers;and I say, as I look around me:

‘If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enoughto do!’

‘You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capitaldays, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?’

‘When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not thetown talk then!’

‘At all events,’ says Traddles, ‘if I ever am one—’‘Why, you know you will be.’‘Well, my dear Copperfield, when I am one, I shall tell the story, as

I said I would.’We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner

with Traddles. It is Sophy’s birthday; and, on our road, Traddles dis-courses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.

‘I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had

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most at heart. There’s the Reverend Horace promoted to that livingat four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys re-ceiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves assteady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls marriedvery comfortably; there are three more living with us; there are threemore keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler’sdecease; and all of them happy.’

‘Except—’ I suggest.‘Except the Beauty,’ says Traddles. ‘Yes. It was very unfortunate

that she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dashand glare about him that caught her. However, now we have got hersafe at our house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again.’

Traddles’s house is one of the very houses—or it easily may havebeen—which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks.It is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing-roomand his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselvesinto upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty andthe girls. There is no room to spare in the house; for more of ‘thegirls’ are here, and always are here, by some accident or other, than Iknow how to count. Here, when we go in, is a crowd of them,running down to the door, and handing Traddles about to be kissed,until he is out of breath. Here, established in perpetuity, is the poorBeauty, a widow with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy’s birth-day, are the three married girls with their three husbands, and one ofthe husband’s brothers, and another husband’s cousin, and anotherhusband’s sister, who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin.Traddles, exactly the same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was,sits at the foot of the large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beamsupon him, from the head, across a cheerful space that is certainly notglittering with Britannia metal.

And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet,these faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenlylight by which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond themall. And that remains.

I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me.My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the

dear presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company.

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O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close mylife indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like theshadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing up-ward!

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Dickens, Charles, David Copper Field Vol.2

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